


Pointless thoughts

by ylc



Series: Pointless [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blackmail, Consent Issues, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mpreg, Mycroft is a good brother, Omega!Mycroft, Omega!Sherlock, Pining, Romance, Sherlock also tries to be a good brother, Unplanned Pregnancy, aparent Character's Death, but not happy per se, character deaths (but not one of the main ones), greg lestrade/molly hooper - Freeform, hopeful I would say, lots of Holmes brothers feels, mycroft/anthea - Freeform, or at least he tries, other pairings mentioned/implied/discussed, pairings tagged are endgame, political scheming, royal au, sherlock holmes/jim moriarty - Freeform, some sexism issues, technically yes because Sherlock is 17, teenlock?, the ending didn't turn out as happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-12 16:43:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 58,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5673097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We don't choose who we fall in love with.<br/>Which is the reason why so many hearts are broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pointless love

**Author's Note:**

> I had promised myself I wouldn’t post this until I had finished it. As usual, I’m a dirty liar.  
> But in my defense, I figured it was the best way to keep myself from stalling: if no one’s reading my fics, I have the horrible tendency to leave them abandoned in my hard drive forever and ever.  
> Also… I wanted people’s opinion. I’ve never written an A/B/O fic, despite it being a very guilty pleasure of mine, so I’m not really sure what I’m doing anymore ;)  
> Anyway, enjoy?

Mycroft wakes up feeling ridiculously tired. With a groan, he tries to roll onto his stomach and finds he can’t, so he groans once more, remembering why he’s in such position. He absolutely despises going into Heat, but he hates even more the morning after it finishes, always making him feel terribly self conscious.

Waking up tied to bed would make that to you, he supposes.

It’s a ridiculous notion, really. That just because he’s a Prince he’s supposed to be completely untouched (not even by his own hands) until he mates… it’s really stupid. And old fashioned. There’s nothing he can do, though; things are well out of his control.

He sighs, eying the ropes tying his hands to the bedpost with disdain. They’re perfectly sturdy, impossible to break no matter how hard he pulls. Therefore, as usual, his wrists are chafed and he knows they’ll hurt for the next few days.

The door opens and a couple of maids come in. The females bow politely (which he finds ridiculous, because he’s in bed, naked and tied up, so in a not a very dignified state) and then hurry to undo the ties. They leave without saying a word, bowing one last time before closing the door and leaving the Prince on his own once more.

He lies in bed for a while longer, cradling his hands to his chest, rubbing his sore wrists. He’s probably in the desperate need of a bath, but he supposes it can wait for a little longer. He’s too tired to move or to care about how dirty he might be.

That he must still subject himself to this torture every 4 months it’s… well, ridiculous. At 24 by all means he should be already mated, but he has managed to scare off every suitor his father has found for him and luckily for him, his mother is open minded enough to be willing to intercede before the King on his behalf to let him choose his Mate.

All within reason, of course. Because the one that Mycroft would willingly have-

Well, it’s pointless to even think about it.

With another sigh he forces himself out of bed and into the adjacent bathroom.

He has a long day in front ot him.

* * *

 

He walks into the dining room, expecting it to be empty. Instead, he finds his parents sitting, breakfast long forgotten in front of them, and glaring at his younger brother.

Mycroft suppresses a groan and wonders what has Sherlock done this time.

His parents look at him when he walks in and he smiles briefly, before taking his usual place at the table. Breakfast should have been over hours ago; he was kind of counting on that. He doesn’t particularly care for company the morning after his Heat is over and he was hoping to enjoy his breakfast with only his thoughts for company.

He looks at Sherlock questioningly, but the younger Prince ignores him completely and continues playing with something on his plate. Still, that’s telling on itself and he immediately knows what’s the reason of his parents displeasure.

He stares at his brother for a couple of seconds, trying to hide his worry. Sherlock has always been skinny, but now he’s looking positively unhealthily so. His pale skin also seems paler and there are dark bags underneath his eyes.

Of course he knows the reason for his brother’s illness, but he also knows there’s no real cure for it except time.

Or at least, he hopes time will make things better.

“Sherlock, you need to eat something,” his mother chides and Mycroft contains a sigh. Even in the best of his moods, it’s pointless to try to make the younger Prince do something he doesn’t want to and considering…

Well, he knows it’s useless.

For a little longer, his parents try to coax the younger male to eat something, but Sherlock steadily ignores them. Mycroft eats in silence, pondering his options, trying to figure out the best way to approach his brother. He knows that as soon as he’s done eating, he’ll be expected to handle Sherlock and he’s really not looking forward that, particularly not in a morning such as this.

But he has no other option, really.

Finally one maid takes his last plate and that’s his parents cue to leave the table. Mycroft sighs, running a hand through his hair and turns to Sherlock, still unsure of what to say.

Fortunately (or not), Sherlock beats him to it. “When you first brought Mary into the castle and insisted on John showing her around… I was so angry at you.” The teenager isn’t looking at him, his gaze unfocused and so Mycroft allows his face to show his emotions, even if it’s just briefly. “But you were trying to help, weren’t you? You were trying to avoid… this.”

The older Prince considers his next words carefully. “Sherlock, you must know that- if there was some way-”

The other nods tightly, standing up abruptly and upsetting his plate, making the food fall onto the floor. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

Mycroft watches him go full of remorse, desperately trying to figure out how to help his little brother, but he knows it’s pointless. He can’t bring John Watson back from the dead and to wish for things to be different it’s an exercise in futility.

There’s nothing he can do for Sherlock.

Nothing to do but wait.

* * *

 

He goes through his usual obligations, his morning exchange with his younger brother still weighing him down, but he forces himself to look completely unaffected. He’s got many duties to attend to and it won’t do to look distracted. The last thing he needs is his father getting overly concerned about him and therefore getting a closer eye on him.

He has learned that it’s better to be ignored by the King and the easiest way to ensure that is to do exactly as he’s expected to.

There are many things that his father is willing to overlook, but Mycroft had never really thought he would be able to hide Sherlock’s friendship with John from the King, although he had hoped that John would see reason and find himself a suitable Mate before Sherlock was old enough to find a Mate himself. But of course the stubborn boy hadn’t, firmly convinced that his feelings didn’t matter, since Sherlock didn’t return them and then-

Well, better not to think of that.

He blames himself for what happened, though. He should have known better really, and should have made everything in his power to ensure things didn’t come to this. He can’t change the past, of course, but he can’t stop himself from imagining all the things he could have done differently either.

Useless and yet-

He knocks on Sherlock’s door later that night. When there’s no answer, he can’t help to worry. He knows there’s a group of spies following his brother day and night, making sure he won’t do anything _drastic_ but Sherlock has always been a sneaky one and to think…

He orders the door to be open, causing a commotion, but not caring particularly about it. He just hopes his parents won’t find out unless it’s strictly necessary. No use in worrying them (although now Mycroft isn’t exactly sure how much they care about their children’s well being, considering-)

His brother has curled himself into a tight ball and is lying in the middle of the bed, apparently having fallen asleep. Mycroft curses inwardly and dismisses the guards, closing the door behind them. That Sherlock is still asleep after all the commotion tells him enough about his brother’s tiredness and he can’t help to feel another pang of guilt at the thought.

He sits at the corner of the bed, watching the teen sleep. There’s evidence of tears on his face and Mycroft sighs, gently running his fingers through the other’s curls. It’s been two months since… everything and Sherlock shows no sign of improvement. He honestly doubts there’ll be, but he must hope.

Hope is all he has left, after all.

He curls in bed behind his brother, holding him close just like he has been doing for most of the past two months. Sherlock protests weakly in his sleep, but quickly rearranges himself into a more comfortable position. Mycroft presses a kiss against the top of his head and decides to settle in for the night.

He could do with some sleep himself.

* * *

 

Something wakes him up in the wee hours of the morning, although he can’t exactly say what. It takes him a few moments to realize he’s in his brother’s bedroom and that the sound that woke him up is the little whimpers leaving Sherlock’s lips.

Mycroft runs a hand through the younger male’s messy curls, knowing there’s nothing he can say or do to ease his pain. He hopes his presence comfort the teenager a little, since that’s all he can offer at the moment.

Oh, but if he could-

“I love him,” Sherlock whispers, not facing him and Mycroft hugs him closer, unsure of what he can say to that. It’s not the first time he has heard the confession, but he still hasn’t figure out what to reply. “And he loved me. Is it such an awful crime?”

The Crown Prince presses another kiss against the top of his brother’s head, rubbing what he hopes are soothing circles against the younger’s arm. It is a terrible crime, in the eye of the crown, but he can’t tell Sherlock that. “It’s not fair,” the younger prince whispers brokenly, his body shaking with a suppressed sob.

Mycroft hums, feeling frustrated with his own helplessness. He wishes there was something he could do to make things easier for his little brother, but-

Life is rarely fair, is it?

He keeps running his fingers through the other’s hair, hoping he’ll eventually fall back asleep. He knows that talking is useless; he can’t give any reassurances and everything he could say has probably already crossed Sherlock’s mind.

“It’s never going to stop hurting, is it?”

Mycroft closes his eyes, fighting back his own tears. It breaks his heart how lost and scared his brother sounds, but all he can do is hold him tighter.

Never in his life has he felt so useless.

* * *

 

He wakes up to the feeling of someone watching him. Mycroft rubs the sleep out of his eyes, sitting up slowly and taking in his surroundings. Sherlock is still deeply asleep against him, looking very young and very tired. His heart aches at the sight, but he quickly forces his face to remain perfectly blank of emotion.

“When did you get back?” he asks calmly, having already figured out the identity of their mysterious guest, so he doesn’t even bother to look at the intruder. He can hear to other man sighing, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the younger Prince.

“Just an hour ago,” Gregory Lestrade replies evenly, coming to stand right in front of the bed and Mycroft looks up briefly at him. He feels the usual stab of sharp longing at seeing the other male, but he keeps himself together admirably.

Unlike his naive little brother, he knows better than to let his infatuation show.

“How is he?” his personal guard asks, signaling the sleeping boy with his head. Mycroft sighs, running his fingers through the Prince’s curls, the feeling of hopelessness hitting him full force once more.

“Not so well,” he confesses. “I don’t think he’ll ever be well again.”

Gregory hums. “He normally would be already berating us for even being in his room.”

Another show of his brother’s distress. Mycroft closes his eyes, trying to keep his emotions under control. “It was- what Father did- it was particularly cruel.”

The other male doesn’t comment, knowing better than to speak against the King, no matter what. However, Mycroft knows he shares his thoughts. “I brought you those cakes you like.”

A small smile makes it’s way to the Crown Prince’s face. Such an unsubtle way of changing subjects, really. “Did you now? What about the other thing I asked for?”

Gregory is his personal guard, but he’s also one of his most talented spies. Mycroft hates sending him away, but sometimes it can’t be avoided; the security of the Kingdom relies on what the other man might manage to find out.

Gregory nods. “Shall we?” he asks, gesturing for them to leave the room. Mycroft sighs once more and sends one last despairing look in Sherlock’s direction.

“I suppose we must,” he agrees, standing up. “Give me a few minutes to wash and get a change of clothes and I’ll meet you at the library”

He has a long day ahead of him.

He’s really not looking forward it.

* * *

 

Gregory is a Beta, a real rarity among genders. Only 1% of the population are Betas and the scientists and doctors have been unable to determine why exactly they seem to lack characteristics of a secondary gender. They aren’t affected by Ruts or Heats and are practically immune to the pheromones of both Alphas and Omegas, which is of course part of the reason Gregory was appointed as the Crown Prince’s personal guard.

Betas can’t form mating bonds or reproduce, but it’s not entirely uncommon for them to marry Alphas. Not Omegas, because Omegas own biology demand an Alpha to see them through their Heats, but Alphas aren’t quite as complicated to satisfy during Ruts.

Of course none of that really matters to Mycroft. If he could- if he was up to him-

Well, it’s pointless to think about it.

It’s torture, having the other male so close and yet knowing that nothing can ever come of their association. Not even true friendship, since he’s not as reckless as Sherlock is to risk it. Better to stay cold, detached and professional, so nobody might ever suspect. Not even Gregory.

Particularly not Gregory.

He thinks he wouldn’t mind the unsatisfying Heats, nor the lack of offspring if he could have the guard for himself. But he knows that it also doesn’t really matter, because he’s a Prince and Gregory lacks any rank and therefore…

They would be just as doomed as Sherlock and John. Although maybe even worse, since Gregory can’t even give him heirs.

So he tries not to entertain silly daydreams. However, he sometimes finds himself observing the other male and wondering what would feel like to be in his arms, to be kissed and-

Pointless, really, but unavoidable.

He shakes himself off his musings and turns his whole focus on the information Gregory has brought him. He needs to focus on the needs of the Kingdom; his own needs and wants matter little in the great scheme of things.

But when Gregory smiles at him-

He can’t help wishing things were different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Should I continue?  
> I’m telling you right now: there’s no actual Character Death in here, I swear! I’ll be adding tags as needed, but I figured I could let you know that before we carry on.  
> Also, I’m thinking of having it all from Mycroft’s POV, but there are a couple scenes that I have no idea how to write them from his POV, so… well, depending on how things progress, this might turn into a series, instead of just a long fic.  
> 


	2. Pointless hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our acts always have consequences.  
> We must be ready to face them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here’s a new chapter!  
> Before we begin, I want to thank everyone for reading this! I’ve never before written an OmegaVerse fic so I was (am) quite nervous about it, so your support means the world to me!  
> Also, I should tell you I don’t really have an historical period of time for this, I’m thinking a little late-Victorian, particularly in the way of thinking, although the Aristocracy is even more close minded. But of course, there are some things that just wouldn’t have held in such times. You’ll see ;)  
> I hope this chapter doesn’t disappoint! Enjoy?

When Mycroft had found out of Father’s plans for John Watson, he had begged, pleaded and tried to bargain for him to reconsider. He had even offered to mate whoever his father chose for him, if only he would let John and Sherlock be.

It had been useless, of course.

Executing the poor man would have been a little extreme and wouldn’t have look well with the masses, but for all intents and purposes sending him to serve at the Northern Borders was pretty much the same. With the constant attacks the border suffers, it is only a matter of time before he gets killed.

And maybe it is even worse, with the whole not-really-knowing what’s going on with him. Is he still alive, is he hurt, is he dying in this very second? Mycroft has absolute certainty that the doubt is slowly tearing his brother apart.

And the hope- the hope that he might survive is even worse.

Since most of the soldiers sent to the Northern Borders don’t make it pass the year, the odds are against him of course, but Sherlock might be naive enough to hope for John to survive. And since John has been sent to train as a doctor and not to serve in the battlefield…

It doesn’t matter, though. Even if he survives, he’ll never make it back to the Capital.

So Mycroft watches his little brother slowly fade away, refusing to eat, being sick all the time and sleeping far too much for it to be healthy. It’s been 4 months since John was sent away and it should be obvious by now that Sherlock is not going to move on.

Mycroft wonders what his father thinks of this whole ordeal. Would he rather have a dead son than a son mated to a “commoner”? He knows the answer, of course, but he tries hard to deny it. He can’t imagine someone being so heartless.

Does that make him as naive as his little brother?

* * *

 

There are a series of desperate knocks on his door and Mycroft groans. He’s terribly busy, can’t people see that? He specifically asked for being left alone and now-

“What?!” he demands, opening the door forcefully and glaring at the poor maid. He hardly ever lets his frustration get the best of him, but he’s having a particularly difficult day and he’s not feeling well.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” the female says, bowing low, “but the Prince has been calling for you all morning-”

He bolts out of the room right away. If Sherlock needs him, everything else can wait. He hurries down the hall, frowning, wondering what would his brother need that he would call for him so urgently and why hasn’t he come to look for him himself sooner.

When he tries to open the door and realizes it has been locked and barreled up, he quickly realizes why Sherlock didn’t come to him himself. His Heat was supposed to start today and so…

But why would he be calling for him? How is he coherent enough to call for him?

“Open the door,” he orders the maid that came to fetch him. The woman hesitates for a beat, but a firm glare from the Crown Prince has her hurrying to obey. She opens the many locks and steps away, bowing once more.

Mycroft enters the room, looking around for any sight of disturbance. From the bed, Sherlock huffs indignantly. “Took you long enough,” the teenager complains loudly and that’s when Mycroft notices the distinctive lack of pheromones in the room.

He looks at his brother closely, who blushes a little under the scrutiny. Sherlock has little shame normally, but being this closely observed by an older brother, while naked and tied to the bed would make anyone feel a little self conscious, Mycroft supposes.

“You aren’t in Heat ” Mycroft comments, feeling quite stupid the second the words leave his lips, but unable to hold them back. Sherlock snorts.

“Brilliant deduction, brother dear.” At least some of his bite is back apparently and Mycroft would be willing to count that as progress, considering how subdued he has been lately if not for this recent development.

The lack of Heat just doesn’t bode well.

“I’ll fetch a doctor,” he announces, turning around to call for a maid.

“Untie me!” the younger Prince demands loudly, before he can open the door again. “I demand to be released immediately!”

Mycroft considers it briefly. He has always found the whole being tied down ridiculous and seeing Sherlock is not even in Heat- “Alright,” he whispers to himself and hurries to undo the tydings. “But I’m still calling a doctor.”

Sherlock nods, looking more resigned than anything, all the fight having left him once more. Mycroft bites his lip, worried, but hurries to smooth his expression. The sooner they found out what’s going on, the better.

Probably.

At least he hopes so.

* * *

 

Sherlock doesn’t like Dr. Sawyer, but she’s the only physician currently at the castle. Besides, the reasons he doesn’t like her for have nothing to do with her actual medical abilities, so Mycroft calls for her even if he knows Sherlock will pout and complain endlessly.

The Omega doctor bows and heads straight to the bed. Sherlock recoils a little, trying to cover himself and Mycroft rolls his eyes. His brother is so dramatic sometimes.

“-probably nothing to worry about” the doctor is saying, while trying to get Sherlock to hold still while she checks him over. Mycroft glares at the Prince, mostly turning off the female’s chatter. “Considering- well, everything. The lack of food and the stress sometimes-” she interrupts herself abruptly, frowning and Mycroft tenses immediately.

“Dr. Sawyer?”

“I- I’ll be back in a minute.”

She leaves the room, sending one last speculative glance in Sherlock’s direction. The Prince glares, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Mycroft bites his lip, trying to keep his worry to minimum, but not quite succeeding.

“I don’t like her,” his brother announces petulantly after a while and Mycroft sighs, resigned.

“She’s a good doctor.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like her,” Sherlock argues back, still glaring.

“Sherlock, if I fired every Omega John ever ‘courted’ we would be left with no staff.”

A very low blow, Mycroft realizes and probably one of the worst things to say right now. However, he’s in no mood for his brother’s childish protestations, particularly not when it seems like there’s something they should actually be worried about.

Luckily, Sarah makes it back before Sherlock can answer and the brothers can get into a fight. The doctor orders Sherlock to lie down and the teenager obeys reluctantly. The female pays him no mind, pressing some kind of hearing horn against the male’s stomach and listening closely.

Mycroft frowns, uneasiness filling him.

“Oh,” the female whispers after a while, looking at Sherlock once more and biting her lip gently.

“What’s wrong?” Mycroft demands and he can see now even Sherlock is worried. Sarah starts playing with her hair, in an obvious gesture of uncomfortableness. She alternates looking between the two princes, torn about something.

“Dr. Sawyer-”

“Sarah-”

“He’s pregnant,” Sarah finally says, biting down on her lip viciously a second later. Sherlock’s eyes are round as saucers and after a second of confusion, Mycroft curses loudly, starting to pace around the small room.

It makes some twisted sort of sense; all the signs were there if you cared to look for them: the puking was morning sickness, the excessive sleep was because his body was too tired due trying to sustain an embryo despite Sherlock’s destructive tendencies. He missed the signs and now- now it might be too late to fix this.

He turns to his brother once more and his heart promptly sinks at the open happiness reflected in Sherlock’s face. He has a hand over his stomach now, caressing it wonderingly, a smile lifting the corner of his lips.

How can he bring himself to break that?

“Leave,” he orders the doctor and the female nods, bowing. “Not a word to anyone,” he adds, before the girl exits, despite he knows it’s unnecessary. Sarah will be as discreet as needed; Sherlock might not like her, but she’s fond enough of the younger prince, if only because John had cared so much about him.

Once alone with his brother, he turns to glare at him, even if his heart breaks a little and his breath catches at the sight of Sherlock smiling for the first time in months, completely oblivious to the dire consequences this might bring. “You realize you can’t keep it,” he tells him emotionlessly.

As expected, it’s like something breaks inside Sherlock. The younger male retreats immediately, pressing himself against the wall, instinctively curling around his abdomen. He looks terribly young and lost and Mycroft hates himself for what he must say. “Sherlock-”

“Please,” the Prince begs brokenly, unshed tears shining in his eyes, panic and pain making his voice break. “Please, Mycroft I- I’ll do anything.”

“Sherlock-” he begins once again, taking a step towards him and the other retreats even further, making Mycroft’s heart ache. “Sherlock, you can’t-”

“It’s all- It’s all I have left of him, Mycroft. Please, don’t take this away from me too.”

Mycroft closes his eyes, already knowing he’s going to give in. He shouldn’t; things are already complicated enough without adding a baby into the mix and yet… “Alright. Alright, I- I’ll figure something out.”

Sherlock beams at him then, his smile so bright it’s almost blinding. Mycroft smiles sadly back, worried he won’t be able to live up to his promise. “You’ll have to take better care of yourself,” he chastises immediately. “No more skipping meals or any other… unsavory practices.”

The younger male nods eagerly. “Thank you,” he whispers, rubbing his belly with a soft smile on his lips. “Thank you Mycroft.”

The Crown Prince just nods.

* * *

 

“How did it even happen?”

Dr. Sarah Sawyer bites her lip, obviously uncomfortable. Mycroft just stares at her, willing her to answer and not caring about her awkwardness. “It’s- well, I suppose that it wasn’t during Heat, seeing all the measures taken to ensure you both are ‘untouched’” She cringes and Mycroft shares the sentiment. It’s a barbaric and old fashioned practice, but one that holds among the highest social circles. “But conception is possible one or two days before or after Heat. It’s- uncommon, but possible.”

Father had wanted to send John away as soon as he found out about the boys friendship. Seeing how close Sherlock’s Heat had been at that moment, the Prince had begged for the departure date to be moved a day after his Heat was over. At that moment Mycroft had thought he simply wanted to see his friend one last time without his capacities impaired, but now-

Well, nothing for it now.

“Is it- Do you think-” he sighs, frustrated with how tongue tied he feels. “Will he be alright?”

Sarah knows what he’s asking. Their mother has a track of difficult pregnancies; between Sherlock and Mycroft there were 2 miscarriages and an stillborn, not to mention that Sherlock had been born early.

“It’s unlikely he’ll miscarriage at this point,” the doctor answers hesitantly. “An early birth however-” she waves her hand vaguely. “Also, he should have been able to feel the child move by now. Although maybe he just didn’t notice; confused the feeling for something else and so-”

“He’s not showing yet,” Mycroft interrupts her and Sarah sighs.

“Not completely uncommon, considering it’s the first pregnancy. And he hasn’t been eating well. That might also make things- difficult, later.”

Mycroft nods, feeling sick. He’s worried beyond words, not only for Sherlock’s health but because he knows he won’t take it well if something was to happen to his unborn child.

It’s not going to be easy, not at all.

“I’ll ask you to conduct other exams, doctor. Whatever that needs to be done to give my brother and his child the best chance-”

Sarah nods tightly. “I’ll see to his health.”

For now, it’ll have to do.

* * *

 

“What’s wrong?”

Mycroft looks up, startled. He wonders how long has he been sitting here, looking thoughtful. Judging by Gregory’s concerned expression, he guesses too long.

With a sigh, he shakes his head. “Nothing. Nothing of importance.”

His guard seems unconvinced, but doesn’t say anything. Mycroft rubs his eyes tiredly; he wants to go to bed and sleep late, yet he knows it’s unlikely he’ll get any sleep tonight. He has too many things in his mind and he needs to figure out a solution for his brother’s dilemma: they don’t have much time and if his parents discover he’s pregnant-

It won’t end well for anyone.

If Sherlock is very lucky, they’ll simply force an abortion onto him, regardless of the riks. If not-

Mycroft can’t even think about it.

A bastard child would be a scandal: he and Sherlock are not even allowed to relieve themselves during their Heats; that the younger Prince has actually laid with someone- it’s unthinkable. Scandalous.

Damning.

If John is still alive, there are no words to describe the torment he’ll be put through. In fact, it might be for the best that he was sent away to die; it’d be a far more merciful fate. How could they have been so stupid, really? John was training to be a doctor, he should have known there could be consequences!

He sighs. It’s useless to worry about the past. He needs to focus on the present.

“Is there something I can help with?” Gregory asks, startling him once again. He had entirely forgotten about the other man’s presence, too lost in his own thoughts. He shakes his head, remorseful, wishing there was someone he could share his worries with.

That’s the whole point of getting a Mate, he supposes. Although he has the suspicion that he won’t get that. Judging by how things are going, it’s very likely he’ll end up mated to someone he couldn’t care less for, utterly dull and whose only interest in him is his title. Someone he’ll see only every 4 months, won’t remember most of it and that will leave him alone once he has produced a couple of heirs.

A really glum prospect, to be honest.

There’s a hand on top of his and the sudden contact startles Mycroft out of his reverie. He looks up and his eyes lock with Gregory’s, who looks terribly concerned and eager to help. Mycroft curses inwardly; how does he dare to look at him like that? As if- as if-

Those looks gives a man all kind of ideas and in Mycroft’s case, he knows those ideas are as dangerous as they’re foolish. There’s no hope for their situation; things won’t end well if he allows himself to entertain silly fantasies. He mustn't-

He takes his hand back, looking away. He can’t bear to look at Gregory’s undoubtedly hurt expression. God, it pains him so badly-

“I’m fine,” he whispers, still not looking at the other male. “Just- tired.”

Gregory looks far from convinced, but he does know when not to push for more. “I brought you a little something,” he says, producing a piece of chocolate out of his clothes. Mycroft arches an eyebrow, more amused than he dares to show. “I know you’re supposed to be watching what you eat again, but well… it’ll be our little secret.”

He hates (loves) when he does that. The wink, the secretive smile. It makes Mycroft go weak on the knees and he’s not certain how much longer he can keep himself in check. “Thank you,” he replies, taking the treat and eating it right away. Mother will have a fit if she finds out, but Mycroft doesn’t particularly care. It’s not his fault his genetic isn’t as flattering as Sherlock’s.

“If you- If you need something-” Gregory begins, when Mycroft starts getting lost in his own thoughts again. “You know you can count on me, right? I mean, _anything_ you need-”

The Prince nods, fighting back every instinct in his body telling him to trust this man with his life. This is a very delicate matter and he just can’t risk it. He knows Gregory would never betray him and yet-

Better safe than sorry.

Isn’t that the story of his life?

* * *

 

As he expected, he has a restless night; he twists and turns and curses and doesn’t sleep a blink. He’s half tempted to go to Sherlock’s room and wake up the teenager: it’s his fault he’s like this. However, he recognizes Sherlock needs all the rest he can get right now.

He has less than a month to figure out what to do. Sherlock isn’t showing just yet, but it’s only a matter of time before it becomes noticeable enough, at least to Mother. And while the Queen lets her youngest get away with many things (unlike the King), she won’t keep quiet on this.

The child is a treat to the Crown. A rather abstract one at this point but a treat no less: if he and Sherlock don’t produce any more children or if they only have Omegas and this one was an Alpha…

It’s risky. It could endanger the way things currently stand. Yet- none of that matters. The child might be the only source of happiness for his brother; a tangible reminder of the man he loved and Mycroft won’t let anyone harm him due petty politics.

He failed Sherlock once.

He won’t fail him again.

* * *

 

“Your brother isn’t looking very well lately.”

Mycroft looks up from the papers he’s working on. Next to him, Gregory hurries to bow to the Queen, but the woman barely spares a glance in the guard’s direction. Mycroft frowns, since he really doesn’t appreciate being interrupted when his working, but considering the subject-

“You expected any different?”

The Queen arches an eyebrow, unimpressed by his tone. Mycroft tries to rein his temper, but fails miserably. He hasn’t slept in a week and the tiredness is starting to show in his general demeanour. “With time, he’ll come to see it was for the best.” She makes a face. “You must see that.”

Mycroft refrains from answering. That his father believes so is one thing, but that his mother- “Was there something you wanted?” he asks darkly, forcing himself not to snap at his progenitor.

The woman sighs, suddenly looking tired and each one of her 47 years of age. “What do you suggest we do?”

Mycroft opens his mouth to say there’s nothing they can do and then promptly closes it. He has an idea and it might be crazy enough to work. “Maybe spending a little while in the country would help.” When his mother turns to him, her eyebrows arched, he carries on. “Everything in here reminds him of what he has lost. A little distance, fresh air, different settings- it might help.”

Violet hums, thoughtful. The Prince catches sight of Gregory’s raised eyebrow but promptly ignores him. It’s a long shot, he knows it, because his brother hates the country, but maybe his mother will buy the lie.

“You really think it would help?” the Queen asks tiredly and Mycroft can feel hope blossoming.

“It’s worth a shot,” he replies, trying to get his tone to remain perfectly flat. He supposes he succeeds, for his mother doesn’t call him on it.

“The Winter Palace?”

Mycroft bites his lip and considers. It might work; the place is the smallest property the Crown owns, which means it has the least servants about, making the chances of keeping the pregnancy and later the babe a secret higher. Also, Mrs. Hudson should still be in charge, making the chances of success even greater; the woman adores Sherlock and would love to help.

“Yes, I think that might work.”

The Queen nods. “Good. I’ll order to have a regiment ready to see him-”

“In truth, mother-” Mycroft hurries to interrupt, his heart now beating frantically. “I was thinking of going with him. I don’t- Well, I don’t think leaving him without any direct supervision would be wise.” He can see the doubt in both his mother’s and his personal guard’s faces at his words, but he desperately hopes he’ll be allowed to go.

“You might be right, of course,” his mother concedes eventually, looking thoughtful. “I suppose that if you were desperately needed, we could always send word for you.”

Mycroft nods, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, but he can’t help it. It seems impossible, but his plan might actually work. “Well, I shall instruct for the preparatives to start. You may leave after your Heat.”

No, that won’t do. By then Sherlock will be most definitely showing and they can’t risk it. “I would prefer if we left right away. You know- the sooner the better.”

The Queen looks truly suspicious now and Mycroft desperately hopes his face isn’t as red as he fears. “Darling, your Heat-”

“I’ve still got a month and a half,” he protests calmly. “The Palace is less than a month of travel away.”

The female thinks long and hard about it. “I would rather not risk it. With all the Alpha guards-”

“Lestrade would accompany us. In fact, it might be for the best if only he came.”

By now his guard also looks suspicious, but he keeps his mouth firmly shut. “Why?” the Queen asks.

“Well- it’s- the smaller our caravan is, the faster we can travel. And we wouldn’t want to drag attention to Sherlock’s- situation. So the less people know, the better, don’t you agree?”

He’s grasping at straws and he knows it, but it’s not like he has much of a choice. “It seems logical,” the Queen finally acknowledges, even if she looks somewhat unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

Mycroft nods, not daring to say anything else that may make her change her mind. “Fine, then.” She turns to Gregory then, her eyes hard and promising all sort of horrible things if he was to fail in whatever she’s going to order him to do. “You’ll make sure my children make it safely to their destination.”

“I’ll protect them with my life if needed, Your Majesty” the guard vows, bowing low.

The Queen nods, apparently satisfied. “You may leave as soon as you finish with that and delegate all your obligations to whoever you see fit” she tells the Prince formally. “As you said, the sooner your brother gets into the road of recovery, the better.”

With that she leaves and Mycroft collapses on his chair, relief flowing through his veins. “What was that about?” Gregory demands, all trace of formality gone and the Prince rolls his eyes.

“I have my reasons, Gregory. I don’t need to explain them to you,” he replies harshly, frustrated even if he knows he has no right to. The guard doesn’t know of the secret he’s keeping and he can’t tell him just what exactly is going on.

The other man stares at him for a beat, anger and hurt reflected on his handsome features. Mycroft bites his tongue, unwilling to apologize, even if every nerve in his body demands him to do so. “Right. Well then, I’ll go and make sure everything is ready for our departure, _Your Royal Highness_.” He stresses the title, knowing it’ll irritate Mycroft. When it’s just the two of them, he doesn’t appreciate all the formality.

A little concession rewarding his completely ridiculous _crush._

Mycroft nods tightly, his heart constricting painfully in the face of Gregory’s obvious anger. He closes his eyes, wishing there was something he could do about it, but also knowing it’s pointless.

It doesn’t matter how badly he wishes things could be different, they are what they are.

* * *

 

He met Gregory when the younger male was 12. The boy was going around the market stalls, pick pocketing passer-bys and stealing little sweets from the stalls. Mycroft had observed, intrigued, as the boy smiled and charmed people so they wouldn’t notice his small robberies.

He had been quite fascinated.

Mycroft had been 13 at that point and quite certain of his own capacities for judging character and decision making, so he had ordered for the boy to be offered a place in the Royal Guard. Back then, his father had trusted his judgement implicitly, always telling him he would make a great King one day.

Of course that changed a year later, when he presented as an Omega, but that’s another tale.

As for Gregory- as Mycroft had thought, he learned quickly and made his way up in the Royal Guard. He was smart and quick on his feet, so he always got out of any tricky situation he might find himself in.

Mycroft had grown more and more intrigued. By the time he realized he had developed a _crush,_ Gregory was 16 and had already been appointed as his personal guard. Trying to get rid of the teenager then would have looked suspicious and Mycroft was unwilling to cause him any trouble.

Now, seven years later, there are days when he regrets that decision.

Not having Gregory join the Royal Guard. No, never that. The boy was obviously wasted as a common thief; he was far too talented for that. But he shouldn’t have taken him under his direct service, because- because-

He’s aware it’s not really a _crush_ anymore. He’s in love, he knows, but he also knows it doesn’t matter. Acknowledging such things will lead to nothing positive and so it’s better to simply keep quiet and insist it’s just a crush.

“Sherlock, living in the country for a little while. God, this is going to be hell,” Gregory informs him, all trace of the anger of their previous encounter gone. Mycroft sighs and nods; he knows that it looks like a terrible idea, but then again, Gregory doesn’t have all the data.

“Would you prefer to stay?” he asks almost casually, but there's a hint of worry in his tone. He can’t tell him just yet the true reason of their trip, but if he has to trust someone with the secret of his brother’s pregnancy-

He would rather have that someone be Gregory.

“Of course not,” the Beta scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’ll follow you to the end of the world if needed.”

Mycroft’s heart makes a little leap of happiness and the Prince scowls. He really doesn’t know if he’ll be able to keep himself in check for much longer.

He catches sight of Sherlock absentmindedly placing a hand over his stomach, staring in the direction of the Northern Borders and he sighs defeatedly.

He must. For Gregory’s and his own sake, he must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone? I’m writing rather quickly, so I’m confident I’ll manage to update at least once a week, but that of course will depend on how much actual work I have.  
> The first part feels a bit weird to me, I don’t know if I got the tenses right? I just kept mixing them. Please let me know if there are any mistakes!  
> I find it weird to just write from one character’s POV, but for the sake of setting a quick pace, I think it’s for the best. However, since I feel like I’m leaving things out, I do believe I will be writing some companion fics. Right now I’m thinking of a little one-shot revising Sherlock’s and John’s last night together, but seeing I can’t write smut to save my life… I’m not sure. It would be heavy on the emotions (and the angst!) but I do feel it’s going to need a tiny bit of smut so… I don’t know.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	3. Pointless plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even best laid plans don't always work out...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have another chapter! I’m writing as fast as I can, but my boss insists on getting me to do my actual work! Really, the unfairness of it all ;)  
> Enjoy?

An emissary might make the trip to the Winter Palace in two or three weeks if the weather cooperates. Seeing they’re a small traveling group, the trip was supposed to take between 3 to 4 weeks, so Mycroft had thought they would make it with plenty of time for him to settle at the place before his Heat began.

He might have made a few miscalculations.

He stares at the pouring rain from a small opening in their sleeping tent and sighs. Traveling under such unrelenting rain will do them no favours, but waiting here is quickly becoming tiring. At this rate he firmly believes he’ll be spending his Heat in the middle of the forest.

He wouldn’t be particularly worried about that, if it didn’t mean that their trip will take even longer. Also, he doubts spending his Heat in the forest will be particularly comfortable, but he supposes it could be worse.

He’s not sure how, but there must be worse scenarios.

Sherlock is being his usual sulky self, glaring at nothing in particular from his corner of the tent. He has wrapped himself in all their capes and Mycroft can’t really complain, because... well, his brother is in a rather delicate state and he wouldn’t want him to get sick.

It would be risky. Besides a sick Sherlock would be an undoubtedly thrice as bad as a travel companion as regular Sherlock is.

Gregory, for the most part, looks completely at ease. He sits close to Mycroft, making the Prince very aware of his presence and a little unnerved by the closeness but also quite unwilling to move.

He thinks it would be quite nice to be pressed against the guard, but he knows better than that.

Sherlock arches an eyebrow, apparently having deducted his line of thought and Mycroft promptly ignores him, turning his attention back to the pouring rain.

It’s going to be another long night.

* * *

 

They make it to a small town and its small inn a couple of days later. The rain had abated for a little while, but it has come back on full force. Traveling during the summer is highly unadvisable due the unpredictable weather, but Mycroft knows they had no other choice.

Sherlock seems to understand this and so far, he hasn’t complained much (or not as much as he normally would).

The younger Prince has steadily been gaining weight, so he looks healthier and less pale. His stomach is as flat as ever, but before leaving, Dr. Sawyer assured them they had nothing to worry about that just yet.

Almost 5 months now. Mycroft remembers very little of his mother’s other pregnancies, but he’s fairly certain that when she was pregnant with Sherlock she started showing at the third month. He doesn’t know what to think about that, so he tries to avoid thinking about it.

He worries constantly and so he might be a little short tempered. He bickers with Sherlock, but that’s not unusual, and he also finds himself arguing with Gregory over the most inane things, but the guard takes it all in a stride, mostly unruffled.

This trip is quickly turning into a living hell.

They end up sharing a big room with two beds. Sherlock protests at having to share the bed with his brother, but Mycroft ignores him. It’s safer this way, even if he knows his parents would be horrified if they found out they are sharing rooms with Gregory.

But what the King and Queen don’t know, won’t hurt them and so Mycroft doesn’t care.

In one of his usual shows of childishness, Sherlock decides to roam around the room naked. Gregory blushes furiously and hurries to look away, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling and quickly excuses himself out of the room. Mycroft sighs, frustrated, but before he can start chiding Sherlock for his inappropriate behavior, his brother goes very still and a look of fright crosses his features.

“Sherlock?” the Crown Prince questions worriedly, quickly making his way next to the younger male. Sherlock’s eyes are open wide, now looking more befuddled than scared. “Sherlock?”

His brother’s face breaks into a grin then and taking Mycroft’s hand, he presses it against his belly. “Can you feel that?” he asks, his voice full of wonder. The older Prince arches an eyebrow, confused and the younger male rolls his eyes dramatically. “It’s moving!”

Mycroft nods hesitantly. Those are potentially good news, because they would mean everything is progressing accordingly, but he can’t feel a thing. Then again, his brother’s stomach is perfectly flat, so maybe- “I think it might be a little early for other people to feel it.”

Sherlock frowns, not entirely convinced. But since Mycroft doesn’t want him worrying endlessly, he quickly distracts him with random questions about the inn keeper. Sherlock seems happy to play along and soon enough they are throwing deductions back and forward, just like they used to play when they were much younger.

Many things have changed since then, but one thing certainly remains: his brother’s happiness is (and always will be) his top priority.

Whatever that might entail.

* * *

 

They stay in the inn for a week. It doesn’t make much sense to travel with this weather: their progress will be practically non existent, so better to stay here where at least they’re dry, warm and well feed.

But one night, with Sherlock comfortably tucked against him (the Prince would never admit it, but he’s a cuddler), Mycroft notices the slight curve on his belly and figures it’s time to move forward. Time is a precious commodity and they can’t afford to waste it.

Gregory has yet to ask what they’re really doing, but Mycroft can see it’s only a matter of time before his curiosity gets the best of him. He might be still holding himself back due the reminder of how their last conversation regarding the subject went, but that won’t hold him back forever.

The Prince knows he must tell him at some point, but he’s not sure how or when. It’s not really his secret to tell and yet... well, considering-

He shakes his head and forces himself to focus on the present. One day at the time.

He’ll figure something out eventually.

* * *

 

Part of the reason of why the Winter Palace works so well for this whole charade is because it’s actually surrounded by nothing but miles and miles of forest. There’s a very very tiny village just in the outskirts of the Palace, but no other sign of civilization in miles around. The trip towards it isn’t much better: there are exactly 2 villages in the way towards it and more forest.

The place is perfectly secluded and therefore perfect for their stunt and yet-

By the time they’re a couple of days of travel away from the Palace, Mycroft can feel the first stirs of Heat. He knows they won’t make it to the Palace in time and yet, he refuses to acknowledge the fact. He simply urges his companions to carry on, mindless of his body demands to stay still.

When the sun hides, the Prince is so tired that he’s falling off his horse. Sherlock rolls his eyes and tells him he ought to have asked them to stop _ages_ ago, but Mycroft ignores him, concerning himself with the most pressing matter at the moment: what is he going to do?

He knows he’s perfectly safe. There are no Alphas in miles around and Gregory is a Beta, so the pheromones will have no effect on him (not that Mycroft would really mind if they did). He also knows that his companions will be fine while they wait for his Heat to be over, but the idea of just- here, in the middle of the forest-

“Should I tie you up?” Sherlock offers innocently, an amused smirk on his lips. Mycroft rolls his eyes at him and the younger male laughs. It’s a nice sound, hearing his brother laugh, but Mycroft isn’t really in the mood to appreciate it.

“I think I’ll be staying in the tent,” Mycroft announces, quickly ignoring Sherlock’s protests. “Will you make sure my brother has a place to rest while- while you wait?” he asks, turning to his guard, who is now looking distinctly uncomfortable and yet, desperately trying not to let it show.

“Of course,” Gregory agrees with a nervous smile. “Will you be alright? Is there- is there anything you might need?”

Sherlock scoffs at that and Mycroft glares; in his current mood picking up a fight would be most unwise of his little brother, but then again, Sherlock has a tendency to do the unwisest things.

“I’ll be fine,” the Crown Prince replies evenly, “just watch over Sherlock, please.”

The guard nods and begins setting up the tent. Mycroft observes him with a certain wistfulness that doesn’t go unnoticed by the younger Prince, who rises an eyebrow challengingly. Mycroft returns the challenge with a raised eyebrow of his own and Sherlock smirks, but doesn’t comment.

All for the best, really. In his current state it’s entirely likely Mycroft would say something he would later regret.

And considering they’re going to spend a long while with just each other (and a few servants) for company, it wouldn’t do.

* * *

 

The first hours are usually the worst, when he’s conscious enough to take notice of his surroundings, but he’s burning with such need that nothing else seems to matter. He twists and turns inside the tent, aware enough of his companions outside to try to keep quiet, but finding hard to do so.

He knows the next few days are bound to be uncomfortable and potentially embarrassing, but he also knows it can’t be helped. At this point the only thing that could actually help would be an Alpha’s presence and that-

Well, maybe that wouldn’t help the matters at all. If anything, it might make things even more embarrassing.

At least this time he isn’t tied up and that’s a small consolation. He considers his options and decides to wait for a little longer before trying to relieve himself. Right now he’s still conscious enough to conjure some fantasies and now is really not the time to start thinking-

No. No, he’s must keep his mind blank. If he starts _imagining_ scenarios, he knows he’ll end up thinking of Gregory and that- that would most definitely make things very awkward. Besides, the longer he can keep control of his baser urges, the better he’ll feel about the whole mess.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

* * *

 

If Mycroft could remember most of his Heat, he probably would be terribly embarrassed by the end of it, but luckily for him, as usual, the Heat and whatever happens during it is a complete blur.

He wakes up feeling distinctly sore and he winces, wondering how that happened. He really doesn’t want to know, so he quickly shakes the thought away and focuses on taking inventory of his surroundings.

There’s nothing particularly remarkable in them, so he supposes things went as normal as they could. He winces once more at his line of thought and attempts to stand up, only to find his legs are being uncooperative and that he’s in the desperate need of a bath.

He decides that to keep on sitting would be in his best interests for now and so he does just that, letting his mind wander. All in all, he supposes things could be worse, although he doesn’t know exactly how.

The distinct rumble of Sherlock’s voice startles him out of his reverie and he quickly crawls towards the tent’s opening. He wonders how his travel companion’s fare, but before he can ask anything, he gets distracted by what his brother is saying.

“-it all adds up quite nicely. So really, you must terribly dense to have missed it.”

“No, no, you can’t- what do you mean pregnant?”

Mycroft groans. His brother was never one for subtlety, so he should have guessed that- “Really Lestrade, just because you’re a Beta- you see, when an Alpha and an Omega love each other very much-”

“God, no, I understand that!” Gregory hurries to interrupt and Mycroft can practically see his brother’s amused grin. “What I meant is- how?”

“I was trying to explain-”

“No, I get that!” the guard exclaims, exasperated. “I just- I mean- I thought outside Heat-?”

“Well, according to _Dr. Sawyer_ , conception is possible one or two days before or after it.”

“So, before John was sent away-”

“Yes.”

Silence. “That dog!” Gregory exclaims, obviously amused. “Well… I can’t really say I envy him, but at least- well, at least his love wasn’t as unrequited as he always seemed to think.”

Mycroft can see Sherlock rolling his eyes through his mind eye. “As usual, you see, but you don’t observe. Honestly Lestrade, you can’t be that dense.”

“Well, you’ve gotta admit-”

“I must also say you’re completely transparent. I’m completely shocked my brother hasn’t said anything.” That catches Mycroft’s complete attention and he perks up immediately. He can hear Gregory spluttering and he frowns, wondering what Sherlock is going on about.

“You- he knows?! Am I that obvious?”

There’s a tense pause and then Sherlock says. “Very. But then again, you’re against the two most observant men in the whole kingdom.” Another pause. “After what happened with John- you do know it’s pointless, don’t you?”

A sigh. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Gregory replies, defeated. “He doesn’t feel the same.”

Mycroft’s heart is beating very fast and he feels light headed and that has nothing to do with the fact he hasn’t eaten in 3 days. “Indeed he doesn’t. But I would proceed with caution either way.”

Sherlock knows. He has seen the way Mycroft stares at the guard, he has seen how he behaves around Gregory. He must know. Then why-?

It doesn’t matter. Better this way. Safer.

He takes a deep breath, putting on his blank mask, hoping he can conceal even from his brother the fact that he has been eavesdropping. He peeks outside the tent and catches sight of his companions sitting by the fire, both looking solemn. His heart constricts, but he forces himself to remain outwardly unmoved. “Sherlock?” his brother turns his way immediately and Mycroft tries to get his voice not to show his embarrassment. “Could you pass me something to put on?”

The younger Prince rolls his eyes but complies. From the corner of his eye he can see Gregory blushing and he tries not to dwell on the idea of how far that blush goes. Sherlock notices, of course, an arches an eyebrow. Mycroft obviously ignores him and instead hurries to put the robe he has passed him on. He’s in the need of a bath, but he’s not certain-

“There’s a small lake close by,” Gregory says, interrupting his musings. “If you...I mean...umm...” he’s blushing full force now and Mycroft can’t help to be endeared by the sight. Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically and proceeds to flop against a tree, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Kindly point the way,” Mycroft says, turning to the guard who is still looking pretty red. Gregory points him in the right direction and Mycroft hurries to collect his things and head that way. He really doesn’t fancy the idea of being covered with sweat and other fluids for much longer.

Besides, they need to resume their travel and the sooner they do it, the better.

* * *

 

“So- pregnant.”

Sherlock has fallen asleep a while ago and although his whole body feels like lead, sleep is eluding Mycroft. He sighs and turns to Gregory, having been half expecting this conversation since yesterday's morning. “Yes,” he says evenly.

“That’s- I mean- do you think-?”

“My parents will never know and everything will be alright,” he says with a conviction he doesn’t really feel, but he’s used to speak in such manner. Gregory frowns lightly.

“Do you- I mean- Sherlock-”

“Won’t be seeing his child much, that’s true. But it’s safer this way; if the King or Queen were ever to find out, the consequences would be most... severe.” He makes a pause, thinking. “For everyone involved in the deception, really. I realize I have no right to ask this of you Gregory, but-”

“No, no, I mean-” the guard sighs tiredly. “I meant what I said before we left the castle, Mycroft. I would follow you to the end of the world. And anything, anything you need-”

Mycroft looks away, incapable of handling all the emotion pouring out of the younger man. His heart clenches painfully in his chest, longing threatening to overwhelm him. This desire to kiss and be kissed, to take and be taken… it’s so much different from the all consuming need of Heat and yet, it leaves him even more breathless.

Sentiment. How bothersome.

“Thank you, Gregory. I- We appreciate it.”

They sit in silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. “Do you have a plan farther than getting us to hide in the Winter Palace till the birth?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “No. Not really.”

Another silence, this one charged. The Prince stares at the other man from the corner of his eyes, very aware of their closeness and fighting his urge to close the distance even more. He knows he mustn’t indulge, but would it be so bad-?

“You should get some sleep. You must be tired after- everything.” Gregory is blushing once more and Mycroft finds it both adorable and frustrating. Heats are not something that are discussed in polite conversation, but honestly-

“Goodnight Gregory,” he says, deciding not continuing this conversation might be for the best and he goes to lay next to his brother, even if he knows sleep is unlikely to come anytime soon, but also knowing that staying in the other male’s presence for much longer won’t do him any favours.

“Goodnight, Mycroft.”

If only things could be so simple. If only they were just _them_ and not a prince and a guard…

No use on dwelling on could bes and would bes. They’ll do nothing but hurt him.

* * *

 

“Why did you tell Gregory his feelings weren’t returned?”

He thinks he has managed to sound casual, but one arched eyebrow from Sherlock and he knows he hasn’t. He sighs, sparing a quick glance around to make sure the guard is still away and turns back to his brother, glaring this time.

“Eavesdropping brother, really? How… impolite of you.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Sherlock-”

“Because hope is pointless,” the younger Prince says darkly, absent mindedly caressing his belly. “Because it’s better if he moves on. That’s if- you don’t want to end up burying him, do you?”

Mycroft closes his eyes, acutely aware of his brother’s pain. “You’re right, of course.”

Sherlock smiles sadly, still caressing his belly. For a while, neither of them speak; words have never been really needed between them. Then- “Why did you choose Mary?”

Ah. He can’t say he hadn’t expected the question at some point, but right now… Still, he supposes he can give him the truth. “Because she had qualities I knew John would appreciate: she was clever, quick on her feet, had a dry sense of humor and a pretty face.” Sherlock scoffs at that and Mycroft smiles mournfully. “Because she would be heartless enough to do what needed to be done.”

Sherlock frowns then, pensive. “What-?”

“Making John choose between you and whoever he was seeing at the moment only lead to the same result. But Mary- Mary knew how the game was played and she wouldn’t have hesitated to take whatever steps necessary to keep John at her side.”

The Prince considers this. “Children, you mean?”

“Means to an end,” Mycroft replies calmly, even if he can tell he’s stepping into dangerous territory. “Not- not only that, but yes, mainly.” Sherlock is clenching his jaw now, but Mycroft soldiers on. “It needed to be done, Sherlock. If you continued your association-”

“So you meant for me to lose him either way? For us to be completely apart?”

Mycroft sighs. “At least you would have known he was safe. And happy, somewhat.”

Sherlock glares, but it lacks true anger. For the most part, he just looks hurt. “You hoped Mary would mate with him and then she would take him away and I- I-”

“If you weren’t pulled apart... it was always going to come down to this, Sherlock,” the Crown Prince tries to explain, pointing at his brother's now swollen belly. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you would have forever kept yourself in check. And he-” he gestures vaguely. “It was in everyone’s best interests.”

“Oh, and you would know what’s best for me, of course,” the younger male whispers venomously. “You always-” he interrupts himself and takes a deep breath, looking up and trying to regain his calm. “If you always meant for me to lose him- why help me now?”

Mycroft sighs, wondering how to explain. “I could live with you hating me, if ultimately it was for the best. But I can’t-” he pauses and takes a deep breath in an effort to keep his voice steady. “I’ve failed you, Sherlock. I’m trying to make up for it.”

His brother stares at him for a long while, thoughtful. “You realize that if hiding it is truly impossible, you’re just as doomed as myself?” Mycroft clenches his jaw, but Sherlock carries on. “When everything's said and done, I’ll have my memories and my child to remember John by. What will you have, brother mine, other than your regrets?”

That’s a very low blow and both know it. However- “I’m the smart brother, Sherlock. If someone can pull this off, that would be me.” He hurries to walk away, knowing that if they keep up like this, their conversation will blow up into a full fight of epic proportions and here and now is really not the time or place for such things.

“You’re remarkably like Mummy!” Sherlock yells after him. “She would be terribly proud!”

Mycroft flinches, but doesn’t stop walking. He remembers all too clearly his last conversation with Mother and wonders if Sherlock is right. What he had intended to do... he was trying to save both Sherlock and John from pain, but there’s no denying they would have been hurt somewhat. Still, he had been convinced it was for the best.

_With time, he’ll come to see it was for the best._

No, no, it’s different. He wouldn’t- what he had planned-

It doesn’t matter. The past is in the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> Don't worry, Sherlock and Mycroft will make up soon! Considering the circumstances, they really can't afford to be angry at each other ;)  
> I fear this fic has gotten officially out of control. I meant for each chapter to be 5-6 pages long and this is 7, while the next one is almost 9. That’s not necessarily bad, but I do worry how much longer it’ll take to finish…  
> I think I’ll be adding another one-shot to the series, this time about why Mycroft would be embarrassed if he remembered what happened during Heat and the part Greg plays in it ;) Don’t expect any smut, though, as it’s not my forte and I don’t really enjoy dub con so…  
> I did write the other ficlet, btw! It’s call “Hopeful promises”, although it’s not really necessary to read.  
> Also, I wanted to ask for your opinions! Should I let Greg and Mycroft be happy for a little while and then carry on with the suffering or should I stick to the quiet (well, somewhat quiet) pining?  
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Pointless worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spot of good luck shouldn't be something to worry about.  
> It certainly doesn't mean that things are about to take a turn for the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s the new chapter! I’m really enjoying myself working on this verse, perhaps a tad too much. I always knew I shouldn’t start writing A/B/O because I would get overexcited…  
> Oh well, it could be worse. Enjoy?

The Winter Palace barely deserves that name, really. It was meant to be a place for the Royal Family to spend the cold winter in relative comfort, but it has been as good as abandoned for over a hundred years. As a result, the place is falling apart, all its former glory long gone.

Still, Mycroft had liked it well enough when he was a child: the vast wilderness surrounding the Palace had called for him and so he constantly begged his mother to take him there. Back then, Mother had been somewhat sweeter and she had agreed more often than not, even if was only for very short periods of time.

As he looks around, he wonders why he ever found the place so fascinating. From the corner of his eye he catches sight of Sherlock’s fond smile and he sighs; he himself hasn’t visited the Palace in over a decade, but there was a time in Sherlock’s life, between ages 7 to 13, when he used to come here once a year in company of-

Oh. How did he manage to forget that?

Not the best place for recovery, if that was really their only intention. He wonders if his mother also missed it or if she simply didn’t care enough. The Palace must be filled with memories of Sherlock’s younger years; running around with his one and only friend and now-

“Relax, brother dear,” Sherlock says sarcastically. “I’m not about to burst into tears in a fit of sentiment.”

His tone is perfectly casual, but Mycroft can easily see through the facade. Things have been very tense between them after their last conversation and the older Prince has no idea of how to make things better. He promised himself long ago that he would always, always tell Sherlock the truth (the only lies between them being the ones of omission) and so when he had asked-

Nothing for it, though.

As expected, there’s no one waiting for them outside the Palace, despite the fact they probably received notice of their visit a couple of weeks ago. But Mrs. Hudson has never quite bothered with formalities and so the princes make their way into the place with nothing but a quick salute from the single soldier standing guard by the entrance.

The sight inside the Palace is truly dreadful. There’s not a single servant in sight, so the place might be as well as empty. They take their horses to the stables themselves and that’s when someone finally shows up.

“Sherlock!” a young female exclaims, hurrying to hug the Prince. While he seems startled by the woman’s sudden appearance, the Prince returns the hug with a small smile on his lips much to Mycroft’s surprise.

“Hello Molly,” the younger male greets almost pleasantly. “I thought you had left to get some proper training?”

The woman shrugs, shifting her weight from one feet to another, showing her sudden unease. Mycroft’s frown might have something to do with that, but he’s just surprised by the apparent familiarity between the Alpha girl and his brother.

Sherlock seems to pick on it and rolls his eyes at the older Prince. “Ignore him. That’s his standard expression.” At this, Mycroft’s frown deepens and Sherlock smirks. “See what I mean?”

But Molly isn’t paying attention to what he’s saying anymore. Her eyes are fixed on the slight swell of Sherlock’s belly and judging by her expression, she has a very good idea of what’s going on here. “Oh,” she whispers softly, almost pained. “You- umm- did you and John finally-?”

At her words, Sherlock visibly sobers up. “That’s not something I wish to discuss right now.”

The female eyes him warily, but nods. She smiles tightly then and turns to address the Crown Prince. “Mrs. Hudson said that you already know where everything is, so you could show yourselves to your rooms and she’ll be waiting for you at the dining room when you have freshen up a little.”

The absolute lack of formality doesn’t surprise Mycroft (much) and so he just nods. Sherlock quickly storms out of the stables, presumably heading towards his usual room and the older prince sighs, watching him go.

“Is he alright?” Molly asks, biting her lip gently. “Did I say something?”

Mycroft just sighs.

* * *

 

Turns out Molly Hooper was born and raised in the Palace. Her mother was in charge of the kitchens and so the girl had been constantly around when Sherlock visited. She developed a sort of crush on the Prince at some point, but she had seemed quite resigned to it just staying a crush.

She shared Sherlock’s and John’s fascination with the morbid, even if she didn’t share their love for danger, so she ended up accompanying them on some of their ‘adventures’, exploring the surrounding forest or ‘solving mysteries’ at the village. She had wanted to train to be a doctor and so the same year Sherlock stopped coming to the Palace, she moved to the biggest town close by (which happens to be 4 months of travel away) to learn healing, but had returned to the village a few months ago, when her mother got deathly ill.

Her mother had died and so the female had stayed, wanting to be close to her remaining family (an aunt and an older brother) for the time being.

So she might not have finished her training as a doctor, but she probably knew enough to help should any complications arise at the birth. And since she is fond of Sherlock-

Yes, she would do nicely.

Pieces are falling into their rightful places and Mycroft isn’t certain if that’s a good thing or not. It just seems like they’ve been too lucky this far and he can’t help wondering just how long their good star will last.

He should probably just be thankful about it and not overthink it, but that’s not his nature.

It seems like he’s just waiting for things to turn southward.

Better to be prepared.

* * *

 

When he finally joins his travel companions for dinner (after making the appropriate inquiries about the current staff of the Palace), Sherlock glares at him. Pregnancy has done wonders for his appetite and lately it seems like he can never be fully satisfied. All as well, Mycroft thinks, he was far too skinny for it to be healthy.

He sits at the head of the table, immediately feeling the tension between him and his brother once more. He decides not to focus on that at least for the evening and so he turns to smile gently at his guard.

Which quickly proves to be a very bad idea when Gregory smiles charmingly back at him and his insides turn into goe. With a resigned sigh he decides to stare at nothing in particular instead and waits in tense silence for Mrs. Hudson to finally make her appearance (bearing trays full of delicious food, hopefully).

Normally, Gregory shouldn’t be sharing the table with them, but Mycroft knows that Mrs. Hudson would throw a fuss if they tried to do things the ‘proper’ way and for once he’s thankful of the woman’s complete disregard for the rules or else he would have been left dealing with his brother on his own and considering their circumstances…

Then again, for once Sherlock really doesn’t seem to care about anything else than actually eating.

A pair of maids enter, bearing two trays full of fruits and bread and jugs of water. Sherlock starts picking things up right way, a highly unusual behavior, but the maids pay him no mind. Nobody here would find anything unusual, since nobody has seen either prince in a long while.

At least Sherlock seems to have had the good sense to dress in loose fitting clothes, so his belly also goes unnoticed. Regular gossip this far away from the Castle is unlikely to make it’s way back to the Capital, but the rumor of the youngest Prince being pregnant-

That’s too juicy for it to be easily dismissed.

The maids come back shortly after, this time carrying bowls of soup. Mycroft watches his brother eat, a pleased smile on his lips. Before he found out about the pregnancy, he was half convinced Sherlock was going to starve himself to death, so it’s a relief to watch him eat with such abandon.

Of course Sherlock notices and turns to glare at him. Mycroft remains completely unfazed, throwing a small smirk in his brother’s direction that makes the younger Prince glare some more.

More food is served and soon enough they have cleared all the plates. The trip was taxing and they had to be very careful with their supplies, since it took longer than they originally anticipated, so they were quite starved.

Finally, Mrs. Hudson makes her appearance.

The woman beams brightly at Sherlock and hurries to pull him into a hug. The Prince scowls while the female fusses over him, but Mycroft can tell he’s secretly pleased. It’s different from the kind of carefully studied affection they’re both used to from their mother and the younger male certainly prefers such approach.

Mycroft- not so much.

Still, he smiles politely at her and allows her to give him a quick hug. If the Queen was ever to find out about this, she would be positively livid, but what she doesn’t know can’t possibly hurt her.

“-a lifetime since your last visit!” Mrs. Hudson is saying, still smiling at the younger Prince. “Whatever brings you here?”

The air turns solemn and the woman frowns, turning to Mycroft, expecting an explanation. The older male sighs. “Maybe it’s for the best if we move this conversation elsewhere.”

Mrs. Hudson looks worried now, but she agrees without saying anything more. She leads them towards the library, where she orders a maid to bring them wine and they all take a seat around a small table.

The library, like the rest of the Palace, is falling apart. Mycroft eyes the books mournfully; there are some very rare volumes stored here and without any proper care, they’ll root in no time. He wishes there was something he could do about it, but quickly shakes himself off his thoughts and focus on the currently pressing matters.

“So, what is it?” Mrs. Hudson demands, once the maid has left, pouring some wine for the princes and the guard. Sherlock refuses his and although the woman arches an eyebrow, she doesn’t press.

For a while, none of them speak. Finally, Sherlock takes a deep breath and stands up, smoothing his loose shirt over his swollen abdomen. Mrs. Hudson stares at him for a beat, before letting out a delighted cry and hurrying to hug him again, much to the prince’s apparent displeasure.

“Oh, my dear, these are wonderful news!” she exclaims happily, completely oblivious to the men’s sober looks. When she finally notices, she frowns. “What’s wrong?” she questions, sounding honestly baffled and Mycroft sighs.

“What happens, Mrs. Hudson,” he explains calmly, “is that my brother is pregnant with the child of a commoner, he is also unbounded and the child’s sire has been sent to his death at the Northern Borders.”

“John is- but why?!” she asks, frustration evident in her tone.

Mycroft sighs once more while Sherlock sits down again, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, evidently trying to keep his pain at bay. “Father found out. He wasn’t pleased.”

“He found out what? That they were friends?” she carries on interrogating the Crown Prince. “How was that a bad thing?”

“Well, obviously, they had more than friendly feelings for each other,” Mycroft says, his tone flat.

Mrs. Hudson rolls her eyes. “Well, yes, but how is that a bad thing?”

The older Prince sighs again. “Because-”

“Because he was a ‘commoner’,” Sherlock replies darkly. “Because he wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth and therefore was completely unworthy of me.”

Mycroft closes his eyes. He can hear his brother’s frustration along with his complete distaste at the notion and while he agrees with him, he also knows there’s nothing they can do about it. He has made peace with the lot he has been handed and for the most part, he’s resigned.

His brother, on the other hand-

“Yes. That-”

“Because if John had had a title, Father would have loved to have me mated as soon as I presented! Because that’s all that’s really needed to make a good mate, right? A fancy title! Nevermind if the person in question is utterly dull and self absorbed and their only interest in me is as a breeding mare-!”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft interrupts his brother’s angry debate, well aware that he’s right. Sherlock turns to glare at him, looking completely outraged.

“It’s the truth and you know it! And you know that applies for your case too!”

The princes hold a silent battle of wills and eventually, Sherlock relents. The younger male turns away, caressing his belly and Mycroft wonders if he’s trying to soothe himself or the baby. With a sigh, he comes to stand right in front of his brother and places a hand over his shoulder in silent support. A soft whimper escapes the teenager and Mycroft squeezes his shoulder affectionately. “Sherlock, if there was- I know it’s unfair. And if I could spare you of this, I would. But we both must do as we’re bound; it’s our duty-”

“I didn’t ask to be born a prince,” Sherlock argues sulkly, although his tone lacks any real fight.

“I know. Nobody asks for their birth circumstances and yet, we’re defined by them.” He crouches down, so he can be face to face with his brother. “As the Crown Prince, my first duty is to always look out for the Crown’s interests, but know this, Sherlock- there’s only one thing I would place above them and that’s your happiness.”

“You have a funny way to show it,” the Prince murmurs darkly and Mycroft closes his eyes, hurt by his brother’s words. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” The older male opens his eyes to stare at Sherlock, who is now biting his lip, apparently pained by what he’s about to say. “I know you care. You’re not- I know you have my best interests at heart.”

Mycroft smiles then, deeply moved by his brother’s words and Sherlock blushes furiously. “Doesn’t mean you know what’s best for me, though,” he adds quickly, “so don’t go making any choices on my behalf, alright?”

Mycroft nods solemnly. It’s not a promise easy to keep, really, but for now-

They’re in this together. It’s better if there’s no extra tension between them.

It’s all for the best, really.

* * *

 

“Well, now that that’s settled!” Mrs. Hudson exclaims a little too enthusiastically, startling both brothers out of their solemn silence, “you should go and get some sleep, Sherlock,” she tells the younger male gently. “You’re going to need all the sleep you can get.”

The Prince narrows his eyes at her, probably sensing there’s something odd in her suggestion. It’s perfectly logical and yet- “I’m fine,” Sherlock argues, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not tired.”

Mrs. Hudson tuts good naturedly. “None of that, young man. I’m not having you deliver that baby early due your tendency to overlook your body’s needs.”

Mycroft nods, sharing the woman’s thoughts. Sherlock sends a glare in his direction, but complies, making sure to stomp his feet on his way out, looking thoroughly annoyed. The older Prince smirks, amused by his brother’s childish attics. Behind him, he can hear Mrs. Hudson chuckling lightly.

“He’s going to be a nightmare to be around by the end of the pregnancy,” Mrs. Hudson says sagely. “Not that his moods were particularly pleasant to begin with…” she trails off, staring off in the distance. “John was good for him. He kept him... centered.”

Mycroft agrees, but doesn’t voice his thoughts. From the corner of his eye he catches Gregory nodding along and he sighs. “No use on dwelling in the past,” he says firmly. “We need to focus on the present.”

“And the future,” Mrs. Hudson adds, non too gently. “What are you planning to do, once the baby is born?”

Mycroft bites his lip. “I’m not sure, exactly. We can’t go back to the Castle with him, for obvious reasons, but-”

“Leaving him here is not really an option,” she interrupts him. “New born babies without their parents- they never make it past the year.”

“If we go back to the Castle with a child, what exactly do you think will happen?” Mycroft demands angrily. “If you think that Father won’t have the baby killed out of some familial sentiment-”

“Oh, I know that,” Mrs. Hudson interrupts him yet again. “Your father won’t see reason, of course; he’ll rather have a dead son than risk scandal, but what I meant is that you can’t go back as soon as the babe is born. What did you tell your mother for her to agree to this trip?”

Mycroft sighs once more. “That Sherlock needed some time and distance.”

The woman hums. “That much is true.” She seems to contemplate this for a long while and finally sighs. “Well, let’s hope she’ll buy the lie for a year.”

“A year?!” the Prince exclaims, more than a little surprised. “I can’t possibly-!”

“He’s still got three months to go,” Mrs. Hudson says curtly. “And he’ll need at least 6 months to recover and nurse his baby, if you want to increase the chances of survival.”

Mycroft bites his lip forcefully, managing to draw blood. Nine months, give or take, plus the time they take to travel back. He supposes it’s manageable, but he worries about what will happen when they do go back.

He sighs. Nothing for it, really. “Do you think Ms. Hooper will be capable of handling the birth?” he asks calmly and Mrs. Hudson huffs.

“She probably could help if complications arise, but really Mycroft- I brought you and your brother into this world, I’m perfectly capable of handling another Holmes baby,” she tells him with a slight glare and Mycroft bites down his response: it’s true that Mrs. Hudson once was a very competent midwife, but she has grown older and this is his baby brother they’re talking about!

The woman rolls her eyes, probably imagining his line of thought and he smiles a bit sheepishly. She shakes her head, smiling kindly. “He’s difficult, but he loves you too,” she tells him, patting his cheek affectionately.  “But he’s bound to be quite moody, so I wouldn’t expect much civility from him. So if you could avoid sensible topics-” she trails off and Mycroft sighs.

He might as well avoid talking to his brother at all, really. There’s no way to know what might set Sherlock off, but considering their self imposed exile, they’ll have to learn to be around each other, since they won’t have much company otherwise.

“As you might imagine, this requires the highest level of secrecy,” he tells Mrs. Hudson with his most authoritative tone. “I’ll ask you-”

“Oh, don’t you worry about it. I’ll make sure no one goes poking their noses into your bussinesses.” She smiles dangerously, “you don’t have anything to worry about, dear.”

Mycroft nods, knowing better than to protest at the term of endearment. With a final nod he turns around, hurrying towards his chambers after deciding he could also do with some sleep. He notices Gregory isn’t following a little later, but he forces himself to continue walking and no go back to eavesdrop whatever the guard is discussing with Mrs. Hudson.

Nevermind he’s terribly curious about it.

* * *

 

Mycroft quickly notices that no servant shows up around this side of the Palace whenever he and Sherlock are about. He supposes that’s Mrs. Hudson’s work and he’s thankful for it; even if suspicion is raised by their rather secretive behavior, it’ll be nothing but speculation and that’s fine. As long as no one catches sight of his brother-

Sherlock grows bigger with each passing day, particularly now that he has Mrs. Hudson to fuss over him. He dreads being practically locked up, but Molly keeps him company more often than not, sharing tales of what she has learned since the last time they saw each other. She’s also always willing to get him something to ‘experiment’ on and although Mycroft worries about how safe that might be, the female Alpha does seem to know what she’s doing and so she makes sure Sherlock doesn’t get hurt.

Despite the ever growing belly, Sherlock moves with a grace and aplomb that Mycroft can’t help to envy. He normally doesn’t dwell on it, but he’s well aware that his brother was blessed with more attractive physical attributes (as Mother likes to remind him) and while it usually wouldn’t bother him, right now he can’t help to feel a bit envious.

“You look like you’ve just swallowed a particularly bitter lemon,” Gregory informs him and Mycroft hurries to smooth his expression. He has been sitting at one of the small private gardens, watching Sherlock enthusiastically look for something with Molly, lost in his thoughts. The guard smiles at him and drops next to him, too close for Mycroft’s comfort, but of course the Prince doesn’t comment.

For a while, neither of them speak, Gregory knowing better than to press for something when Mycroft isn’t in the mood for sharing. “He’s looking well, don’t you think?” the Beta asks casually, smiling in Sherlock’s direction. “Healthier, at the very least.”

Mycroft nods. “Pregnancy does suit my brother.” He makes a face, incapable of holding himself back. “Lucky him.”

Gregory arches an eyebrow, curious and while Mycroft knows he should let the matter drop, he can’t stop himself from explaining. “My brother got the good looks of the family.” He’s aware he sounds bitter and so hurries to add, “I got the brains, of course.”

For a beat, Gregory doesn’t reply. Then, he chuckles. “Oh god, what are we then, the rest of the mortals? Disfigured idiots?” Mycroft looks at him confusedly and so he continues. “I mean, if you’re the ‘unattractive’ one and Sherlock is the ‘dumb’ one, then what does that make the rest of us?”

Mycroft tells his silly heart to hold still. Gregory isn’t saying what he thinks he’s saying, is he? “You think I’m attractive?”

Gregory snorts loudly and Mycroft hurries to look away, embarrassed. He shouldn’t have asked, but- “Of course I do. You’re bloody gorgeous; haven’t you ever seen your reflection?”

Mycroft’s whole face is burning and he tries to keep himself from smiling. He’s pleased, no way to deny it, but he shouldn’t-

He can’t do this. He really can’t.

He stands up right away, startling his companion. He starts saying something, but Mycroft doesn’t bother to listen and instead chooses to escape back to the safety of his rooms. He can’t allow himself to think much about Gregory’s words because nothing good will come from it but-

God, he’s damned, isn’t he?

* * *

 

“So why did you run off earlier?”

Mycroft groans, turning to glare at his brother who is smiling all-too-innocently at him. They’re sharing dinner at the younger’s rooms, seeing he has finally gotten so big that it’s impossible to hide his belly, no matter how loose fitting his clothes might be.

“You know perfectly well why,” the older brother says, clenching his jaw. Sherlock tilts his head in mock curiosity, his eyes wide with pretended innocence.

“I really don’t,” the Prince says after a while, when it’s obvious Mycroft isn’t going to fall into his trap. “I mean, I guess Lestrade said something ridiculously sappy, but-”

Mycroft closes his eyes, willing his cheeks not to redden. Judging by Sherlock’s smirk, he doesn’t succeed. “Oh. A compliment then?” the younger male asks, his tone a little too earnest and Mycroft wonders if it’s because he’s honestly interested or because he just wants to tease him.

Either way, he’s not raising to the bait.

“Ah, come on, brother dear! Tell me!” he demands playfully and Mycroft rolls his eyes, making his brother laugh good naturedly.

“Since when do you care for such matters?” The Crown Prince asks a tad petulantly and Sherlock snorts loudly.

“I’m bored. Even your pathetic love life is becoming very interesting.” Mycroft sighs, feeling a pang of guilt. Sherlock rolls his eyes, “I know it’s necessary. Don’t get overdramatic now.”

“It was a bad idea bringing him here,” Mycroft says softly. “Being so far from home is making me- I know it’s pointless, but I-” he sighs, frustrated with himself. “Here, it’s either yours, or Mrs. Hudson’s or his company and it’s making me- it’s making me-”

Sherlock nods, all trace of amusement gone. “It’s easier to believe it could work,” he says, just as softly, his hands resting over his swollen belly. “Hope is a very dangerous thing.”

Mycroft agrees silently. Sherlock sighs, patting his hand awkwardly, both way out of their deep. Affection and comfort it’s not something that comes naturally to them, particularly because they didn’t receive much of either when they were younger. Mycroft has tried his best to always be supportive of his brother, but he does realize that he goes about it in probably wrong and unhealthy ways.

“Would you like to feel him move?” Sherlock asks suddenly and before Mycroft can say anything, he has grabbed his hand and pressed it against his stomach. For a beat, it’s like the world has stopped and then he feels it: a strong kick and then some more movement; the baby is probably looking for a more comfortable position. Unbidden, a smile comes to his lips and when he looks up his heart swells at seeing the returning smile on his brother’s face.

“You’ve thought of names?” he asks quietly, his hand still resting against Sherlock’s bump. The younger Omega nods, looking a bit sheepish.

“Hamish, for a boy,” and Mycroft would roll his eyes, but he can’t really begrudged him the choice of name. “And I’m thinking Abigail, for a girl?” when the Crown Prince arches an eyebrow, Sherlock blushes furiously and explains. “It means ‘father’s joy.”

Mycroft stares at his brother for the longest time, tears threatening to escape his eyes any second. Finally he blinks, hurrying to look away and hoping Sherlock won’t mention his little emotional slip. Judging by the other’s sad smile, he did notice, but he’s willing to pretend he didn’t.

“Are you still hungry?” he asks and is quite proud of how his voice doesn’t break. Sherlock shakes his head once.

“I’m fine,” he replies and Mycroft nods, standing up and picking up the plates, placing them on a tray that he’ll leave outside for a maid to pick up later. “Can you- Would you mind sleeping with me? I just-” the younger one bites his lip non-too-gently. “I’m having trouble sleeping.”

Mycroft nods once, still feeling too emotional to trust his voice. But then again, when was the last time his brother looked at him with such vulnerability?

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, as he heads outside, towards his bedroom to fetch a change of clothes. Once in his rooms he leans against the door, letting his head rest against it as tears finally make their way down his cheeks.

His poor baby brother. How did it come to this? How could he allow it to come to this?

How could he fail him so utterly? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is ridiculously long. Funny story? It was meant to end _after_ the birth. So I had to cut it in two and next chapter might not be as long, but well… that’s why.  
>  Also, I planned to include more pregnancy related stuff, but since this runs from Mycroft’s POV, I figured it would work better as a companion piece from Sherlock’s POV. Then again, I’m not sure when I will write it, because I’m a little short of inspiration for that.  
> You know, the whole point of just using one POV was to keep this short and boy, did that backfired...  
> So, I had a plan and this was going to be 11 chapters long. That plan has been officially tossed away, since I’m currently working on chapter 8 and no matter how long that chapter turns out to be, there’s no way I’ll be able to fit the heartbreak, Jim’s introduction, wedding planning and an actual wedding in it so… yeah, I don’t know how long this is going to be.  
> On other news, I did write a companion piece for last chapter, it’s called “Guilty secrets”, in case you want to check it out.  
> Thanks for reading, let me know what you thought!


	5. Pointless nerves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, complications arise and there's nothing we can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, since this chapter is kinda short, I decided to update a little earlier. Besides, I had a more or less crappy few days at work so I needed something to cheer me up ;)  
> Enjoy?

As the time for the birth approaches, Mycroft becomes more and more nervous. Sherlock rolls his eyes every time he expresses his concern, reminding him that he’s the one having the baby, but Mycroft thinks that’s all the more reason to worry: if something was to happen to his little brother-

No, he doesn’t want to even contemplate the possibility.

But he knows better than to overwhelm his brother with his worries, so he tries to keep some distance and not to be constantly hovering over the younger male. Still, Sherlock seems determined to be as reckless as ever, refusing to rest or go for ‘lighter’ activities. Mrs. Hudson insists that everything is perfectly fine and that the fact that the teenager has so much energy actually bodes well for the birth, but Mycroft can’t help to be unconvinced.

It’s not that he remembers much of his mother’s other pregnancies. He had been too young back then to pay much attention, but he does recall how eerily quiet the Royal Quarters were the morning Sherlock was born. The tension was high and everyone seemed both nervous and tired and by the time his brother was born-

His mother had been deadly pale and Sherlock had been too small and too quiet. He didn’t cry, as babies normally do, and he didn’t react much, no matter what the doctors tried.

Mycroft had never been more scared in his life. Now, over 17 years later, he’s just as scared.

If something happens to Sherlock during birth, there’ll be hell to pay once he makes it back to the Castle. If complications arise and that affects Sherlock’s chances to have any more children, there’ll also be hell to pay once the King finds out.

And yet, that’s not what worries the Prince the most: no, his biggest concern is what will happen if the baby doesn’t make it.

He can face whatever retribution that might come his way and if his brother was to pass away, he’ll grieve of course, but at least Sherlock will be resting in the other world (and he might be reunited with his beloved).

But if the child doesn’t make it-

If the baby doesn’t make it, all he can pray for is that his brother won’t make it either. It breaks his heart just thinking about it, but he knows Sherlock and he knows that he won’t be able to take it. What he’ll do if he survives and his baby doesn’t-

Now that- that he doesn’t want to even begin to imagine.

* * *

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night, startled. For a beat, he doesn’t move, wondering what exactly woke him up and then he hears it again: Sherlock is screaming.

Without any conscious thought, he bolts out of the bed and hurries to the younger Omega’s room. Mrs.Hudson is already there, ordering a maid to go and fetch Molly and when her eyes meet the older Prince’s, she nods somberly. Mycroft bites his lip,all his fears coming back to him right away. The woman opens the door, letting him in and his heart clenches as he finds his brother sobbing quietly into his hands. He’s sweating all over and he looks like he’s in terrible pain and Mycroft doesn’t know what to do.

He approaches the younger Prince quickly, taking one of his hands in his. Sherlock looks at him briefly, before a whimper escapes his lips and he curls into himself instinctively. Mycroft hesitates, not having a clue of how these things go and cursing his ignorance.

It’s all part of their supposed ‘innocence’. Childbearing and birth is not a subject that any unmated Omega has any business knowing and until now, Mycroft had never really been curious about it. Now he realizes he should have asked Mrs. Hudson sooner what to expect, but he hadn’t thought-

Another pained whimper from Sherlock gets him back to the present and he squeezes his brother’s hand in silent support, not knowing what else to do. Luckily, the door opens then, admitting Mrs. Hudson and Molly in, followed by a very tense looking Gregory, who is carrying a bunch of towels and a bucket filled to the brim.

His eyes lock with his guard’s and the other offers him a small smile that comforts Mycroft more than it should.

He shakes his head. Now is not the time for such thoughts!

Mrs. Hudson is asking Sherlock questions, but Mycroft seems incapable of focusing, panic quickly threatening to overwhelm him. He hates not knowing how to handle something and so this whole ordeal is being quite unnerving.

“I think we have a couple of hours more to go,” Mrs. Hudson comments off handedly, as she checks Sherlock. The teenager whimpers again and the older woman pats his thigh comfortingly. “I know love, I know. But I can’t give you anything for the pain; I need you conscious enough to push.”

Sherlock doesn’t protest and that, Mycroft thinks, goes on showing just how bad the pain is. That his brother is not even attempting to say something- it’s worrisome, to be honest.

“Is there nothing we can do?” he asks, well aware of the desperation in his voice but not caring about it.

Mrs. Hudson sighs, running a hand through her short hair. “I’m afraid not.” She responds. “Talking to him, making sure he stays hydrated, maybe helping him walk a little… but mostly, just wait.”

Mycroft tries to keep his frustration from showing, knowing it won’t help at all.

He just hates waiting.

* * *

 

If the few servants of the Palace are any curious about what the fuss is about, they seem to respect (or fear) Mrs. Hudson enough not to get anywhere near the youngest Prince’s rooms. All as well, because Mycroft wouldn’t want anyone seeing him in the panicked state he’s currently in.

He paces outside the room once the sight of his brother in pain becomes too much for him to handle. Sherlock makes an effort to answer Mrs. Hudson’s questions whenever she asks what he’s feeling, but other than that, he remains quiet except from the whimpers and occasional sobs.

The contractions are still ten minutes apart from each other. Apparently, they have to wait till they’re a few minutes apart and for them to last something close to a minute (which, to be honest, sounds incredibly awful). Seeing it’s been nearly two hours since Mycroft was woken up, he’s starting to doubt such time will come.

Surgery is not an option, not really. The Queen would notice the scar immediately (no matter how minimal and from what Mycroft understands, it wouldn’t be small at all) and of course that won’t end well for Sherlock. Still, if there’s no progress, Mycroft fears it’ll be the only option left and while it might save his brother’s life (for now), in the long run-

The door opens and Gregory steps out. He smiles briefly at him and Mycroft hurries to look away. He shouldn’t allow himself to be distracted by his own silly _crush_ , but ever since that day at the garden he has been sort of avoiding the younger male and now- now-

“They’re five minutes apart,” the guard informs him quietly, coming to stand right next to him. “But Mrs. Hudson thinks we still got an hour or so to go.”

Mycroft nods, rubbing his temples tiredly. “I’m just- I can’t stand seeing him in pain.”

Gregory’s lips curve upwards very briefly. “You just can’t stand not being in control of the situation.”

That too. He hates that this is beyond him. “I don’t know- if something was to happen-”

“I know,” Gregory interrupts, placing a hand over his arm gently. “If it helps anything, Mrs. Hudson is confident everything is progressing nicely.”

Mycroft scoffs, unconvinced and the other male smiles, turning to stare at nothing in particular. They stay in silence, standing side by side, and the guard’s presence does wonders to help to ease Mycroft’s nerves. He’s not completely relaxed, not by far.

But at least he feels slightly more confident.

* * *

 

Molly opens the door an hour and a half later, gesturing for them to come in. Mycroft hurries back to his brother’s side, while Gregory hurries to obey all of Mrs. Hudson’s commands. Molly crouches next to the older female, paying close attention to what she’s doing and saying, but Mycroft’s whole focus is on his brother, who’s looking even more tired and pained now.

Sherlock grabs his hand and squeezes with too much strength. Mycroft supposes that’s a good sign, even if his hand hurts a little afterwards. He runs his other hand through the younger male’s messy curls, trying to project a calm and confident aura. Sherlock offers him a smirk to convey that it’s not really working, but his face quickly contorts in pain as another contraction hits.

The next few minutes are just plain nerve wracking. Sherlock screams, Mycroft curses and Mrs. Hudson barks orders. There seems to be no progress at all and Sherlock looks on the verge of fainting when finally a new cry can be heard.

Mycroft finally tears his eyes away from his brother, just in time to see Mrs. Hudson passing Molly the baby. The child is crying loudly, as Molly tries to comfort him and clean him at the same time. Mrs. Hudson is telling Sherlock something, but Mycroft still can’tfocus on anything.

“It’s a girl!” Molly tells them, smiling as she steps closer to them, so Sherlock might look at his daughter. Mycroft stares at his baby niece and his heart skips a beat, a smile making its way into his face. He turns to his brother then, eager to see his reaction and promptly panics.

Sherlock looks pale as a ghost and is shaking like he’s overly cold. Still, he extends his arms, asking for his child and although she hesitates, one quick look at Mrs. Hudson has Molly passing him the baby.

Mycroft observes the teenager closely as the other’s whole focus remains on his newborn girl. Sherlock’s smile is intoxicating, even if he looks so terribly sick and weak. He’s still shaking and Mrs. Hudson seems worried and that- that just doesn’t bode well.

Molly has crouched down next to the older woman once more and both are whispering between them. Mycroft can feel cold dread filling his every pore and he turns to look at his brother once again, who for the most part looks completely unaware of the uncomfortable tension in the air.

“Mycroft, take the baby and step out,” Mrs. Hudson orders suddenly, startling the older Prince. Sherlock makes a distressed sound, but Mycroft hurries to obey, knowing there’s nothing he can do here, even if every instinct in his body is telling him to stay put and protect his baby brother.

He takes his niece in his arms with ease and with one last look at Sherlock, he exits the room, holding the baby close to his chest to keep her as warm as possible.

He realizes now that there was one scenario he forgot to consider:

What will he do if his brother doesn’t make it and his niece does?

* * *

 

He paces around his own room, careful not to jostle the baby much. She cried a little, a mix of hunger and distress, but fell asleep eventually. Mycroft knows that his scent is similar enough to Sherlock’s to comfort the baby, but what she really needs is being close to Sherlock. However, given the circumstances-

He finally sits on his bed, closing his eyes in despair. He doesn’t want to think, because right now he can’t handle even imagining his brother not pulling through, but the most rational part of his mind insists that he must, that he needs to be prepared-

The baby opens her eyes, whimpering a little. She needs some milk, but Mycroft isn’t sure how to go about that. He knows, theoretically, that goat milk might work as substitute, provided it’s been diluted a little with water and he has some recollection of maids feeding Sherlock by letting him suck a cloth drenched in milk , but-

The door opens then and Gregory peeks in. He looks tired, but a soft smile is on his lips. “You can come back now,” he tells him gently. “They have the bleeding under control now.”

The words do little to ease Mycroft’s worries, but he does stand up and follows the guard back to Sherlock’s room. The Prince is still laying on bed, looking quite pale, but more concious. He extends his arms as soon as he catches sight of Mycroft and the older man hurries to give him back the baby.

“Abigail,” Sherlock reminds him tiredly and Mycroft rolls his eyes. Of course his brother has noticed he has been calling the child ‘the baby’ inside his head all this time.

“Abigail,” he agrees, smiling down at the sight of his brother and his niece. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

Sherlock hums contently, as he tries to figure out how is he supposed to nurse her. Mrs. Hudson hurries to come to his rescue and even if it takes a few tries, eventually the child finally latches at the nipple, making contented sounds as she eats.

Mycroft closes his eyes, overwhelmed with emotion.

All in all, things are going well.

* * *

 

Abigail takes remarkably after her Alpha father. She has John’s nose, lips, eyes and ears. In fact, as far as Mycroft can tell, she only seems to have inherited Sherlock’s cheekbones, although it’s hard to see because of the baby fat.

She also has a mop of hair that promises to turn into his brother’s unruly curls, although the color is closer to Mycroft’s own. Then again, John was blond, so it’s likely that as she grows older it’ll change to match her father’s.

Unlike Sherlock, she’s a loud baby. Mycroft has lost count of how many times he has woken up to the sound of the baby crying and more often than not, he worries about what the servants of the Palace might be thinking. Mrs. Hudson assures him they have nothing to worry about, but Mycroft is beginning to see his plan wasn’t as sound proof as he originally imagined. Still, considering the little time they had-

“You’ve gotten yourself lost again inside your own head, huh?”

The Prince looks up, completely unsurprised to find Gregory observing him. He wonders how long he has been sitting at the small garden and deduces by the sun’s position that it has been quite a while. He looks down at his niece, peacefully asleep against his chest and he smiles softly. “Has Sherlock woken up?” he asks, slightly worried. It seems that nowadays Sherlock only sleeps, eats, nurses the baby and goes back to sleep.

That can’t be good.

“He’s having dinner,” the guard answers calmly, which suggests that everything is normal. Mycroft relaxes a bit, carefully switching Abigail from one arm to the other. Gregory observes him curiously, head slightly tilted and Mycroft arches an eyebrow questioningly.

The Beta smiles ruefully. “You’re quite a natural. I’ve seen Sherlock with the baby and he seems... he seems afraid of hurting her. You, on the other hand-”

Mycroft shrugs, non committedly. “I have some practice,” he says, remembering quite well when Sherlock himself had been a baby. Mycroft had been too young to do much, but he had enjoyed carrying his brother and rocking him to sleep. His mother had been quite weak at first to really take care of the baby and by the time she had gotten strong enough-

Well, the Queen had never been the warmest of people.

Gregory smiles brightly at him. “You’ll make a wonderful father.”

Mycroft forces his face to remain perfectly blank: the truth is, he doesn’t want any children. He has never really believed in gender roles and he thinks it’s utter madness to assume that just because he’s an Omega he longs for little ones. He knows he’ll probably end up having them, though: it’s not like his Mate will give him any choice on the matter.

He knows his place and he knows what his duties are. He’ll do as it's expected of him, but deep in his heart-

Nevermind that. It’s pointless to even think about it.

“Shall we go back in?” he asks, his tone casual, but he can tell Gregory can see past his facade. The thought is both reassuring and frustrating: he knows nothing can come of this and yet-

“Yes. Before Sherlock throws a tantrum.” Mycroft smiles, slightly amused.

Some things never change. And regardless of the fact that he’s now a father, Sherlock is still a teenager that behaves like a child all too often.

Not that Mycroft minds.

Not most of the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone? The birth part was longer in my head, but again, seeing I’m going with Mycroft’s POV, it didn’t make much sense to make it longer (or so I think) I’ll get around writing Sherlock’s POV at some point, but I don’t know when…  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	6. Pointless memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To love just to lose.  
> What's the sense in that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a new chapter! I’m deeply concerned about character development in here. It just- it feels weird.  
> Enjoy?

Mycroft glares, trying to convey all his irritation with one look. He’s aware the effect is a bit dismissed by the gurgling baby in his arms, but it just means he has to try harder. He narrows his eyes as Mrs. Hudson continues to smile endearingly at him and after awhile, he finally gives up.

It’s impossible to deal with the woman when she’s like this.

He turns his attention back to his niece, who is sucking on her thumb, completely oblivious to the conversation going over her head. Something inside him aches at the thought of having to leave the girl behind and going back to the Castle, but he hurries to squish the idea of taking her with them before it can be properly formed.

It’s as ridiculous as it’s risky. It’s better for everyone involved that the baby stays as far away from the Capital as possible.

“He was always like that,” Mrs. Hudson is telling Molly, who is trying very hard not to stare much at Crown Prince and his probably besotted look. “You should have seen him when Sherlock was a babe; I honestly dont't know why everyone thought he would be an Alpha. He’s got all the Omega’s nurturing instinct.”

Mycroft glares once more, slightly offended at the implications. He has always worried too much about his brother and he did try to look after him ever since they were children, but he resents the implication that that’s product of his stupid biology.

For all her insightful nature, Mrs. Hudson can be terribly old fashioned at times. She should know better, really, being an Omega herself-

“And of course, now that his biological clock is ticking-”

“That’s not-!” he exclaims frustrated, but at Mrs. Hudson’s arched eyebrow, he goes quiet. He’s only 24, for God’s sake! Yes, maybe he’s a little older than the average unmated Omega, but he’s in no hurry to bond. Besides, he really doesn’t want children of his own; all this looking after his niece is just because his brother can’t do it himself.

And speaking of Sherlock- “I should probably go check on my brother. Make sure he hasn’t drowned himself in the tub.”

Mrs. Hudson smirks, fully aware that this is really a tactical retreat. Still, Mycroft doesn’t allow his frustration to show and he quickly turns around, exiting the dining room and heading towards his brother’s chambers, all the while cooing over his baby niece.

It’s not his fault the girl is completely adorable, really!

* * *

 

The Palace is mostly deserted. Or at least, the Royal Wing is. Mrs. Hudson has taken upon herself most of the duties in that side of the Palace, mostly to keep prying eyes away. Mycroft is certain the servants must have a couple of theories of what’s happening, but as long as there’s no actual proof-

He’s not sure how they’re going to disguise Abigail’s parentage. Luckily she doesn’t look much like either Prince, but-

He enters the King’s chamber, which Sherlock claimed shortly after the birth. Being the biggest room, it seemed like the most logical move, since now there’s also a baby to consider. The bed here is big enough for the Prince and his daughter to fit comfortably, without risking hurting her.

Of course there’s a nursery somewhere, but so far this arrangement has worked.

He can hear Sherlock at the bathroom, humming softly to himself. Abigail seems to hear him too, as she starts squirming in Mycroft’s arms. The Prince smiles softly at her, before pushing the door open, revealing his brother lying on the tub, eyes closed, a small smile on his lips.

Mycroft steps closer, mindful of the spilled water. He’s about to berate Sherlock about it, when he notices the water has a slight pink hue and so he frowns, concerned.

“It’s all perfectly normal, Mrs. Hudson tells me,” Sherlock informs him calmly, opening his eyes. “Something about my uterus going back to its original size.” He shrugs casually, extending his arms so Mycroft can hand him the baby. “I wasn’t really paying attention.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. For all of Sherlock’s thirst for knowledge, anything that has to do with biological needs is, according to him, completely dull. “How are you feeling?” the older male asks, as he watches Sherlock holding his daughter close, if a bit nervously. It’s only been two weeks, so he supposes a little hesitancy is still to be expected.

“Fine,” the teenager replies with a shrug, smiling down at his baby girl. “Perfectly fine.”

Mycroft knows that now that the pregnancy is over they need to discuss their trip back to the Castle at some point, but he’s unwilling to broach the subject. Besides, Mrs. Hudson said that they should wait at least six months, so they’re in no particular hurry.

As long as Mother’s summons don’t come, everything is alright.

“Come on, let’s get you into bed before you catch a cold.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but complies, passing the girl over to his brother. He quickly towels himself and puts on a robe, immediately reclaiming back his daughter. Mycroft can’t help to smile as he watches his brother cooing over the little baby: he certainly never expected Sherlock to be this… loving.

Sherlock sits on the bed, humming once more. The baby is making small whimpering noises, signaling she’s hungry and so Sherlock places her over his chest, so she can nurse. Mycroft observes the proceedings with a small fond smile on his lips, although he’s quick to put on a blank mask when his brother turns to look at him.

Judging by Sherlock’s arched eyebrow, he knows exactly what’s going through Mycroft’s head. He can’t help it though; he’s deeply moved by the image. Sherlock scowls slightly, before turning his attention back to his daughter.

“So, where was I?” Sherlock says, apparently deciding to ignore his older brother and choosing instead to address Abigail, which in turn just makes Mycroft feel more endeared. “Ah, yes. Well, after your father helped me escape the cook, I insisted we needed to go and look for Lestrade. Of course John said-”

Mycroft closes his eyes, drowning out his brother’s tale. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised; after all, Sherlock had truly loved John and now that the baby is born, it’s logical he finds himself reminiscing their younger days. He doesn’t think it’s particularly healthy, but who is he to tell his brother how to deal with his grief?

At least Sherlock’s tone is wistful and not particularly heartbroken. It seems that, to an extent, he’s healing.

Or at least, Mycroft hopes so.

* * *

 

Mycroft stands at one small balcony overlooking the gardens. The winter months are quickly approaching, so the weather has gotten colder. Not as cold as back in the Castle, of course, but it’s still too chilly to be outside without a cape.

But despite the cold and his lack of proper attire, Mycroft doesn’t feel like moving. His eyes are fixed on the bare garden, but his mind is far away, lost in his own dark thoughts.

Busy as he had been worrying about the logistics concerning his brother’s pregnancy, he had failed to keep in mind that Sherlock is also grieving. An impossible overlook, really, seeing just how very evident it is, but-

“Something on your mind?” Mycroft closes his eyes, telling his treacherous heart to stop being ridiculous. There’s absolutely no reason for it to start beating so erratically just because Gregory happens to be in their general vicinity.

“Many things,” he replies evenly as the guard wraps his cape around his shoulders. Mycroft tries not to feel overly moved by the gesture, but he fails miserably.

He’s truly pathetic, isn’t he?

“Care to share?” the guard asks playfully, coming to lean against the balcony rail, facing Mycroft. The Prince observes him for a beat, before sighing.

“I’m worried about Sherlock. He’s...” Gregory is frowning, concern written all over his face and Mycroft hurries to look away, “he misses John.”

“Ah,” the Beta whispers softly and when Mycroft risks a glance in his direction, he can see he’s biting his lip, thoughtful. “It’s to be expected, isn’t it?”

Mycroft nods slowly. “It’s just... I sort of...” he waves his hand vaguely. “I wish there was something I could do”.

The fact he’s even talking about this is a testament of his inner workings. Mycroft hates discussing anything remotely sentimental and yet, he always seems to be willing to make an exception when it comes to Gregory.

Not good, really.

The guard is smiling wistfully. “I know things ended... not well. But at least... At least they both found out how the other felt. You’ve got no idea how many times I listened to John moaning about his unrequited love.”

Mycroft sighs; he remembers a couple of conversations on the same line. He couldn’t outright tell John Sherlock was in love with him, but he had heavily implied it more than once. The training doctor, however, was dead set on not listening.

He wonders if he really doubted the fact or if he was simply attempting to ignore the truth, hoping for-

For what?

“What use is it?” he asks, perhaps a tad too bitter. “It doesn’t change a thing.”

Gregory eyes him warily and Mycroft hurries to look away. For a while, neither of them speak and finally the Beta sighs. “I suppose not. But they have their memories.” He shrugs non committedly. “You know how the saying goes: better to have love and lost than never loved at all.”

Mycroft frowns, thoughtful. “You really think so?”

He looks back at his guard then and promptly regrets it. The other man’s eyes are glued to his lips and Mycroft finds himself gulping nervously. Gregory looks up, locking eyes with him and the Prince realizes he’s a little out of breath and when did it get so warm out here?

“I think that any pain is worth it, for the chance to love and be loved.”

Mycroft finds himself enthralled, incapable of looking away from the other’s unwavering gaze. “Even if you know it’s impossible? Even if in the end, all you have are memories?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft’s eyes drop to the guard’s lips and he licks his own unconsciously. He’s aware of the younger male following the movement and he feels like he’s falling: the world seems to simultaneously spin too fast and to hold impossibly still.

Would it be so bad-?

He forces himself to look away. He’s not like Sherlock; he doesn’t like taking unnecessary risks no matter how tempting. He plays for wins and if he knows that the only thing waiting for him at the end of this road is pain-

He can’t.

“I don’t think I’ll ever understand that. I’m not the kind of man who dives headfirst, not caring about consequences.”

“You’re not,” the guard agrees calmly, although Mycroft can tell he’s as affected by this conversation as himself. “But maybe you are too careful. Don’t you ever- Wouldn’t you want to-?”

“Why risk my heart and more important, my mind, for something that’s not meant to last?” he asks coldly, feeling his heart beating furiously inside his chest. “If there’s no hope for a future, taking risks is completely pointless.”

“Ah, but that’s part of being alive: taking risks.” Gregory’s smile is wistful, if a tad predatory. “You never know what you might be missing.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, ordering his ridiculous heart to stop beating so erratically and for his head to stop entertaining such silly thoughts. He knows why he can’t do this, why he can’t allow himself this moment of weakness. He has always played by the rules; he might bend them a little on occasion (particularly when his little brother is concerned), but he always follows them.

He can’t do this.

“Well, I guess I’ll never find out.” He turns around slowly, careful to measure his steps so it doesn’t look like he’s running away. He can feel the other’s eyes glued to his back, but he forces himself to keep walking and not turn back.

God knows what’d happen if he does.

* * *

 

Of course he finds himself reminiscing the conversation at the oddest times. Or maybe they’re not so odd: when he catches Sherlock telling Abigail yet another story about her other father, when he takes longs strolls across the gardens, late at night while he lies in bed incapable of sleep.

He knows it’s pointless to even think about such things, but-

What use would it be, to indulge in the illusion of love if he knows exactly what will happen later? It’s not a matter of ‘ifs’, there’s not even the slightest chance that things will work out. He’s a Prince, he can’t marry a commoner. And Gregory is a Beta, so they can’t mate. So even if, by some miracle, they could be together-

Mycroft needs heirs. He’s going to need an Alpha for that.

It’s awful and unfair, but it’s the truth. Wishing for things to be different will do nothing for him: better to keep the status quo, better not to dare to dream-

To love just to lose…utter nonsense. Maybe if he had more of a masochist streak, but he certainly doesn’t. He won’t- he can’t-

But by god, how he wants!

* * *

 

So lost in his worries, he fails to notice his next Heat is due. With all his conflicted feelings, he’s really not in the best of moods and he certainly would do anything to avoid going through the wretched affair, but it’s very little he can actually do. Mrs. Hudson offers him some herbal remedies to alleviate the symptoms a little, but there’s only so much they can do.

He begrudgingly locks himself into his rooms, already feeling tired of it. He lies on the bed, eyes glued to the ceiling, willing his mind to remain perfectly blank.

It doesn’t work. His mind seems dead set on replaying his last conversation with Gregory, conjuring all sort of scenarios that always end with them tangled in bed and-

He groans. It’s too soon to start getting lost in his own lust and besides, he knows better than to indulge in fantasies that involve his guard. However-

They could be more than fantasies: they could be memories. And maybe they would be painful, but at least he would know- it can’t be that horrible, can it? Even if it’s just for a little while... even if it could never last...

He _wants_. But if he did give in… will he be able to live with just his memories for company? Is he strong enough?

He supposes he’ll find out, won’t he?

* * *

 

Three days later, with his mind no longer overcome with lust, he sits on the bed and ponders his options. He had been so convinced he wasn’t going to give in and yet-

He forces himself to analyze the situation: he wants Gregory, but that’s nothing new. He’s also a bit in love with the guard, but that’s also old news. Then why is he even considering it now?

It’s the distance, he thinks. So far away from the Castle, away from prying eyes and his father’s too many informants, he has allowed himself to lower his defenses. If something was to happen here… it might stay a secret.

Is that what he wants? A few months of whatever it might be and then go back to hiding his feelings? Is he be capable of it?

It’s a dangerous game and the stakes are way too high. The logical side of him, the one he has always listened to, is telling him to forget about all this nonsense. But the more romantic part of him, the one that holds onto hope regardless of how pointless it is-

It couldn’t hurt, could it?

( _Yes it could_ )

* * *

 

He stands outside his guard’s room for the longest time. He has been delaying this moment as much as possible, but since it’s almost midnight and everyone has already gone to sleep, including his two months old niece, he’s officially out of distractions. Mycroft sighs, takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.

“And here I was wondering if you were ever going to come in,” the other male tells him playfully, not looking up from the book he’s reading. Mycroft wonders when things became so… _casual_ between them. They were- there used to be-

Well, none of that matters anymore, does it?

“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day,” he starts, proud of himself for not stammering. Gregory looks up then, eyes narrowed and head tilted curiously.

“Have you?” he asks, looking slightly confused. Mycroft wonders why, but tries not to dwell much on it and instead forces himself to keep on talking.

“Yes,” he agrees, stepping closer to the bed and he can see the guard tensing, which makes him wonder if he has somehow misread the situation. “Do you really think that love is worth every pain?”

Gregory’s eyes are fixed on his as he nods very slowly. Mycroft swallows nervously, closing the final distance between them. Standing here, right next to the bed, the whole thing feels too intimate and every nerve in his body is screaming for him to run and hide, but he stands his ground, forcing himself to hold the other male’s gaze. “What do you want, Mycroft?” the guard asks, looking both hopeful and terrified.

The Prince takes a deep breath, before taking a seat on the bed, next to the Beta’s legs and leaning in closer, so their faces are almost touching. “This,” he whispers, pressing his lips against the other’s.

The angle is all wrong and his neck protests almost immediately. However, he holds still, too nervous to try to improve his position.

For a couple of seconds, it’s like the whole world has gone still. Then Gregory makes a pained noise and pulls back, startling the Prince. His heart is beating furiously, embarrassment and confusion fighting inside his mind. He bits his lip non too gently and waits, holding his breath.

“What-?” the other man starts after a little while, before shaking his head. “What was that?”

“I- I thought-” he tries to explain, but finds himself strangely out of words. He’s out of his deep and he really doesn’t understand what the problem seems to be, but- “was that- wasn’t that alright?”

The younger male scoffs. “What are you playing at, Mycroft? I mean- I shouldn’t- What do you think you’re doing?”

“I- You said- You said that even if there was no hope, sometimes risks were worth taking and I thought-”

“I meant- I meant, when you love someone! where do you think you’re going with this?”

His face is red with embarrassment, but he manages to keep himself together so his voice doesn't shake when he speaks. “I apologise. I seem to have misread the situation.” Only that he couldn’t have. He had always suspected... and then he overheard Gregory and Sherlock speaking and... Oh. Wait. Could that be it? “No. I didn’t misread it. You did.”

“How could I-?!”

“You think I don’t feel that way about you,” he whispers softly, praying he’s right and not about to embarrass himself further. “You think I’m just- what?”

“You’re not- you’re not-” the guard is staring at him with wide open eyes, now looking hopeful once more. “You actually return my feelings?”

The Prince rolls his eyes. “I thought that would be obvious.”

Gregory laughs then, shaking his head unbelievingly. “I’ll give you that our last conversation seemed pretty... charged, but I thought... you left and you sounded so certain about never finding out that I simply... I thought I was being overly optimistic.”

Mycroft is still frowning, but he does see the logic in Gregory’s thoughts. “Well… I… umm… that is…” he curses inwardly, at lost of what to do or say now that their little moment seems completely ruined, but the guard takes pity of him and grabs him by the face, pulling him into a kiss.

It takes Mycroft a few seconds to get the handle of it, but soon enough he’s kissing back confidently. He’s fairly certain that his technique needs a lot of work, but Gregory doesn’t seem to mind and besides, they have plenty of time to practice.

Another 4 months or so, at the very least.

* * *

 

Kissing is very pleasant but anything else is a bit overwhelming. It’s to be expected, honestly. He has spent all his life carefully concealing his emotions and his desires, having his mind rule over his body, his heart, his instincts. Letting himself go…

It’s a bit frightening, to be honest.

Regardless, he presses forward. If he hesitates now, there’s no telling if he’ll convince himself of being this reckless again. If he goes all the way now, it’s less likely he’ll start having second thoughts.

But some of his hesitance must be showing, because suddenly Gregory stops kissing him. Mycroft forces himself not to panic and instead tries to pull his companion into another kiss. The other man goes willingly and he is beginning to think his diversion has been successful, when the guard pulls back once more. He makes a distressed sound in the back of his throat, attempting to follow Gregory’s lips, but the Beta places a hand over his chest, keeping him where he is.

For a while, there’s no other sound in the room but their labored breathing. Mycroft is quite conscious of his arousal and how much the room smells of it, but it’s a bit unnerving Gregory’s lack of smell. It’s not that the other man isn’t aroused, he can feel his erection pressing against his tight, but biologically they’re not supposed to be compatible. Not that it matters, not really, but-

“What’s wrong?” Gregory asks softly, looming over him, staring intently into his eyes.

“Nothing’s wrong,” the Prince replies quickly, perhaps too quickly. He curses inwardly, upset by his evident nervousness. He usually has a better handle of himself, usually he can conceal whatever he’s feeling, but-

“Don’t lie to me,” the other says softly, placing a quick kiss against his cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Mycroft bites his lip, unwilling to answer. However, since it seems his companion won’t simply let it go, so… “I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

“Ah,” Gregory murmurs, rolling off him and making Mycroft panic right away. He grabs the other man by the wrist, his heart beating erratically, fear reflecting in his eyes. The Beta observes him, frowning a little and then lies down next to him, gathering him into his arms. “It’s fine,” he whispers against the top of his head and Mycroft shivers a bit, still feeling too much. “I understand.”

No, he really doesn’t. It’s not- These aren’t first time nerves. It’s- the thing is- “I’m not used to this,” he explains, biting his lip and drawing some blood. “Sentiment, I mean. It’s just- I’m feeling too much.”

Gregory hums, hugging him closer. The angle is a bit weird, because Mycroft is taller, but the Prince finds himself unwilling to move and just curls even closer. “There’s no rush,” his guard assures him, pressing a kiss against his forehead. “We’ll go at whatever pace you’re comfortable with."

No, that won’t do. Doesn’t he see they have little time? There’s no need- He’s fine. He can do this. “I’m fine,” he argues, sounding a tad petulant and the other man chuckles good naturedly, before kissing him on the lips. It’s just a quick chaste peck, but no less lovely for it.

“Regardless… probably better to go a bit slower.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, but doesn’t insist. He knows Gregory is right, even if he hates to admit it. They don’t have much time, true, but rushing things might just end making it unnecessarily complicated. It’ll be fine. They have time, even if not much.

“Kiss me again?”

Gregory complies.

* * *

 

“So, you’ve decided to go down that particular rabbit hole.”

Mycroft looks up from the book he’s pretending to read, frowning lightly. Sherlock stands in front of him, looking quite recovered, holding his baby daughter in his arms and smirking down at him.

“I beg your pardon?” he says, deciding to play dumb. Sherlock rolls his eyes before carefully lowering himself to the ground, sitting next to him.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock answers simply, as if that was answer enough. In a way, Mycroft supposes it is.

For a while, neither of them speak. Sherlock’s gaze is turned towards the north and Mycroft keeps his eyes fixed on his niece, who is awake and apparently intently studying her own hands. “I thought I was the unwise one,” the younger Prince finally says, turning to face him once again. “That’s what you’re always saying, isn’t it?”

Mycroft sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Do you regret it?”

Sherlock stays quiet for a while, deep in thought, before his eyes drop to his daughter. A small smile makes its way to his lips and he shakes his head once. “Never.”

The Crown Prince nods. “There you have it. It’s… reckless, but not unwise.”

Sherlock smirks, amused. “Why, brother dear… you seem to have had a drastic change of heart.”

Mycroft glares and the younger male laughs. “I’m well aware of what awaits for me at the end of this road,” he says slowly. “I won’t fool myself into believing otherwise. As long as I keep that in mind-”

Sherlock observes him curiously, thoughtful. “You really think you can do it?”

“Yes,” he replies, perfectly confident and his brother shakes his head sadly.

“You’ll see,” Sherlock comments off handedly, struggling to stand up once again. Abigail makes a distressed sound and the teenager hushes her softly, caressing her head lovingly. “I- I don’t regret it and I never will, but- there’s only so much memories can do for you.”

With those ominous words, the Prince leaves. Mycroft stares at him for a beat, wondering if he has made the right choice after all.

It doesn’t really matter, does it?

Too late for regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> Does it feel rushed? I’m not sure the whole thing really goes with what we know of the characters so far. It feels a little out-of-nowhere to me, but I don’t really know. In my original sketch, Mycroft carried on silently pining for most of what’s left of the fic, but it was just so frustrating! So I started toying with this idea and I liked it, but then chapter 8 turned unbelievable painful… and I worry how much IC it is.  
> I’m rethinking this whole thing, but please let me know if you think it works or if you have any suggestions of how to improve it?  
> In the meantime, I’m writing a companion piece in two parts, in which we’ll see Sherlock remembering and we’ll finally find out what’s going on with John. Hopefully they won’t be too angsty, but god know everything I touch turns angsty for some reason or another ;)  
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


	7. Pointless regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things come to an end.  
> What matters is the 'in between'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels a bit weird because I go back and forward a bit, but hopefully it’s not confusing? I just… I really wanted to start with the first scene but that might not have been a good idea…  
> Anyway, enjoy?

It feels like the whole world has shifted.

It’s ridiculously cliched, but Mycroft does feel completely changed. Rationally, he knows that that’s not the case. He simply lost his virginity, which is a stupid social construction to begin with and yet-

He turns to look at his lover, who is observing him warily. He smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way and Gregory returns the smile, before kissing him softly.

It’s different from the kisses they shared a little earlier. This one has more feeling than desire behind it and for that, it seems to taste even sweeter. He’s a little embarrassed at how mushy his own thoughts are right now, but as long as he doesn’t voice them outloud-

“Alright?” Gregory asks when he finally pulls away from the kiss and Mycroft considers the question.

“Perfect.”

* * *

 

He had been so nervous, fearing he would somehow mess it up. He had endured his brother’s not so innocent teasing for most of the morning, knowing full well that Sherlock was trying to hide his unease behind his teasing banter. The younger Prince had been worried, obviously uncertain of how wise Mycroft’s course of action was.

To be honest, he had felt at odds too.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Sherlock had asked one last time before retiring for the evening. “There’s no turning back after this.”

It had sounded so ominous and dark that Mycroft had almost given up. Instead, he had gathered his courage and nodded once. “It’s too late, anyway. I’ve- I’ve already taken the risk and not seeing it through at this point-”

Sherlock had looked at him solemnly, like he had been watching his brother heading towards a certain death. Then again, in certain ways, he was. “Good night then.”

So tired. Resigned, even. Like he knew Mycroft was beyond salvation.

When had Sherlock turned into the cautious one?

* * *

 

His encounter with his brother had left him shaken. It was so unusual to see Sherlock being serious about something that it had made Mycroft quite unsettled. Sherlock claimed he didn’t regret his time with John, even if it hurt remembering it. Why then was he so wary of his brother attempting to build some memories of his own?

Mycroft had always believed he was the tougher one. He had always thought he could handle whatever life threw his way and so far, he had been able to. Sure, he was diving into unexplored waters and sentiment had certainly never been his forte, but he was quite sure he could handle whatever came next.

It couldn’t be much more difficult than what it currently was. He had spent the last 6 years, give or take a few, pining after a man he couldn’t really have and after this he’d carry on living with the knowledge that he and Gregory could never truly be together, but he’d have the memories of the brief time they did spend together.

He could do it. Surely- surely it wouldn’t be that bad?

* * *

 

He had found himself standing outside Gregory’s room once more, nervous as the first time. They had spent a great part of the last month in said room, sometimes talking, sometimes just enjoying each other’s presence, but more often than not, kissing like there was no tomorrow. They were taking things somewhat slow, but Mycroft was accurately aware of how little time they actually had and so he had decided-

It seemed like the kind of memory one ought to have of someone you love. And while Mycroft wouldn’t claim to have much of a sex drive, he was certainly curious. He did want this memory and so it seemed perfectly logical-

So he had braced himself and opened the door. Gregory had looked at him from his place on the bed and smiled brightly at him, gesturing for him to come closer. The Prince had complied, hurrying to his beloved’s side, perhaps a tad too eagerly and had placed himself on the other man’s lap, pulling him into a languid kiss.

Each kiss had been long and sensuous, as Mycroft had been determined to commit every detail to his memory. He had moved slowly, all too conscious of his inexperience, but eager to learn. He had rolled on his back, dragging Gregory with him and switching their positions, just to lock his legs around his soon-to-be lover’s hips, keeping him close.

Clothes were taken off shortly after, between kisses, never quite breaking apart regardless of how difficult that made the whole undressing business. Mycroft had still felt quite nervous, but his elation had quickly made his nerves seem completely ridiculous. He trusted the man he was with and he loved him, so there was nothing to worry about.

“Are you sure?” Gregory had asked lastly, once every single piece of clothing had been out of the way, looking down at him with obvious lust, but also loving concern. Mycroft had nodded once, trying to get his heart to stop beating so furiously and then Gregory had sunk into him, making them both let out a breathless moan.

It had been too much and not enough at the same time. They didn’t find their rhythm right away, but the awkwardness didn’t take away any of their pleasure; if anything, it made it grow. They kissed messily, uncoordinatedly, half formed sentences leaving their lips at times, but mostly just breathless calls for each other.

When Gregory had finally rolled off him, Mycroft had stared at the ceiling for what felt like the longest time, his whole body feeling like jelly, his mind blissfully quiet for the first time since forever.

Perfect, he had said?

No. Even better than that.

* * *

 

“So, how was it?”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow at his brother’s question. Sherlock returns his stare evenly and the older male rolls his eyes. “Quite nice, if you must know.”

Sherlock stares at him for a beat, a soft sad smile on his lips. “Just nice?” he teases finally, after a couple of aborted attempts to say something else entirely.

In lieu of a response, Mycroft throws a pillow at him, making the younger one run for cover, laughing.

* * *

 

Mrs. Hudson throws him knowing glances and Mycroft wonders if it’s really that obvious or if Sherlock has said something to her. Considering that the younger Prince considers her more of a mother than their actual one, he finds it entirely too plausible.

He catches the female talking with Gregory in hurried whispers, the guard blushing furiously at whatever she’s saying and Mycroft can’t help to laugh a little.

Life has never seemed sweeter.

* * *

 

“Have you realised it yet?” Sherlock asks a few nights later, while they sit in front of the fire, the younger one nursing his daughter while Mycroft stares at nothing in particular, lost in his thoughts.

“Huh?”

“We need to start planning our departure,” Sherlock tells him sadly, his eyes never leaving his daugher. “We can’t stay here forever.”

Mycroft feels a pang of pain at the notion. His brother is right, of course, but he had been trying to- “Oh,” he whispers, realizing what the younger Prince really means. He had been planning on staying much longer. In fact, he wasn’t planning on ever leaving.

That’s not good. Not good at all. He can’t allow himself to forget-

Sherlock smiles ruefully, not looking at him. “I warned you, didn’t I?”

Indeed he did.

* * *

 

It’s so easy to overlook how precarious their situation really is. He has allowed himself to dwell into the illusion of this _lasting_ and he lost sight of the reality of things. They can’t stay here forever. They must go back eventually.

A part of him tries to convince him that if they do stay longer, it would be for his niece’s benefit. However, deep in his heart, he knows that’s partially a lie and the notion never fails to surprise and horrify him a little.

He thought he could handle it. That he could simply go back to the way things were before.

How foolish he was.

* * *

 

These days, Sherlock can be find at one of the small private gardens more often than not. On occasion he only has Abigail for company, but sometimes Molly or Mrs. Hudson are with him. He looks somehow more lively when he’s with either female and Mycroft worries what that might mean for him once they go back to the Castle. Especially since there he won’t even have Abigail for company.

He sits next to his brother, careful not to wake up his niece. The baby sucks on her thumb, completely oblivious to her father’s evident distress and Mycroft politely looks away, allowing Sherlock to continue crying without observers.

For a while, neither moves or says anything. Mycroft isn’t exactly sure his presence is welcome, but Sherlock hasn’t snapped at him yet, so he guesses he either doesn’t mind or is too lost in his pain to care.

“It’s been a year,” Sherlock tells him sadly, looking down at his daughter. “You would think it’d get easier with time, but-” he curls into himself, careful not to squeeze Abigail. “Do you think he’s still alive?”

The odds are he isn’t. However, Mycroft is nowhere near cruel enough to say that. “Maybe.”

Sherlock hums softly, disbelieving. “He promised me he would come back to me. John is- he was a man of his word.”

Mycroft closes his eyes, unsure of what he can say. Empty consolations won’t work and he’s never been good at offering comfort, but-

In the end, he just hugs his brother awkwardly, running his fingers through his curls in what he hopes is a soothing manner. “Aren’t you going to wish me a happy birthday, brother dear?” Sherlock asks bitterly and Mycroft squeezes his eyes shut, hating how completely helpless he feels. He had tried- If there was anything-

But they are what they are. They were born with duties, responsibilities, obligations. And while he has come to accept that, Sherlock-

God, if he could spare his brother he would.

But there’s nothing he can do.

* * *

 

“I’m thinking we could go back after my next Heat.”

Sherlock doesn’t turn to look at him, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Abigail squeals, demanding her father's attention and the teenager looks down at her briefly, offering her a quick smile and then turns back to staring out the window. Mycroft sighs, feeling very tired.

Since Sherlock’s birthday the air feels... somber, darker. Mycroft still spends some delightful moments with Gregory, but he’s all too aware of how quickly things are approaching their end and so he has decided that he shouldn’t keep on prolonging this facade. If his brother agrees with his plan, they have a little over a month left.

“Are you ready for it?” Sherlock asks him, still not facing him and Mycroft bites his lip, knowing full well what the younger Prince means.

Is he ready for it to end?

“No,” he replies sadly, turning around and heading towards the exit. “But we must leave before Mother gets too suspicious.”

A month and a half, give or take.

Not nearly enough time.

But it’ll have to do.

* * *

 

Time slips away far too quickly. Before he knows it, a month has passed and Mycroft finds himself getting ready for the unpleasant business that Heat normally is. Except this time-

“Spend it with me?” he asks Gregory softly, almost hesitantly. His lover regards him with careful consideration.

“Are you sure? I mean, I’m not-” the guard gestures vaguely at himself, looking strangely self conscious. “I’m a Beta. I won’t- I won’t be much help.”

Mycroft laughs bitterly at that. Gregory is right, of course. Biologically, spending his Heat with Gregory or by himself is pretty much the same, but that’s hardly the point. “I want to be with you,” the Prince whispers, pressing closer. “I don’t care about what my biological urges might dictate; I want you.”

Gregory groans and kisses him hungrily, pressing their bodies impossibly close. Mycroft smiles and kisses back with as much passion as he possibly can, all too aware that each kiss gets them closer to the end.

It’s a dark prospect.

* * *

 

Heat is the usual blur of hormones, desire and frustration. He remembers next to nothing, but when he wakes up on the third day and finds Gregory’s arms wrapped around him, sleepily nuzzling the back of his neck, he smiles to himself.

What a pleasant way to wake up.

If only it could last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? It feels like it should have been two chapters, but they would have been too short and they just sort of fit together, you know? Only… maybe I should have moved that first scene to where it is chronologically taking place, but well… let me know what you thought?  
> Also, I’m deeply worried about where I’m taking this. You can probably see where this is heading, right? (at least I think so, if I’ve been doing this whole foreshadowing-thing right…) and well, once more, I worry about character development.  
> Maybe this is a good moment to tell you that, in my heart, I’m a believer of “love conquers all” and it shows on my endings. But to get there… well. You’ll see.  
> And, I would also like to point out that the companion piece for the previous chapter is up and it’s called [ “painful memories”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5955496/chapters/13688839)


	8. Pointless wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acts have consequences.  
> Knowing that doesn't mean we're ready to face them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins! The actual plot! Well, sorta. I mean, all that has happened so far is important, but as we begin to unravel the actual issue… well, you’ll see. I’m sorry if I’m confusing, I enjoy being all mysterious a bit too much ;)  
> Anyway, enjoy?

The news of an emissary making his way towards the Palace dash all of Mycroft’s half-baked plans of staying a little longer. Sherlock, for his part, although upset, seems strangely resigned.

Not a good thing and completely out of character, but Mycroft knows there’s nothing he can do. So with a half broken heart, he sets to start preparing for their return. The emissary is 3 days away. They need to leave tomorrow at most.

He knew the end was near.

He also knew he was nowhere near ready for it.

* * *

 

His last night with Gregory is bittersweet. Mycroft makes sure to commit every detail to his memory, but he also knows it won’t be enough. It will never be enough. He wants- he wants so much more than this.

That’s the problem with allowing yourself little indulgences: you always end up wanting more.

But he has always known he can’t have that. So he took what he could and now he must pull away once more, making sure to erect the barriers around his heart twice as resistant as they once were.

He knows what he must do now.

He also knows it’s going to hurt.

* * *

 

The younger Prince presses one last kiss against her forehead, before passing her to Mrs. Hudson. Abigail complains at that, making her displeasure known by letting out a shrilling cry, but Sherlock hurries out of the room, not looking back even once.

Mycroft offers Mrs. Hudson a sad smile. “Thank you,” he tells her softly. “For everything.”

The woman nods tightly, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Abigail continues crying, confused by her father’s sudden disappearance and Mycroft leans down to kiss her forehead too. “Goodbye, Abigail.”

He doubts he’ll ever see his niece again and he intends to commit this to his memory too. It’s unlikely that he’ll find more excuses to visit the Winter Palace with his brother and he wouldn’t want to raise suspicions. If only things could be different-

But he knows how pointless is to wish for them to be.

* * *

 

Gregory tries to strike conversation with him while they ride to meet the emissary. They haven’t discussed what happens now, although Mycroft has already made up his mind. He notices the guard’s attempts to talk to him, but his mind doesn’t quite register the words and so he remains quiet, lost in his thoughts. It feels like the whole world has been drained out of color and sound, but Mycroft can’t bring himself to care.

The guard doesn’t attempt any further conversation. The Prince can feel his eyes on him the whole time, but there are no words exchanged between them.

It’ll be a long and painful road.

But it needs to be done.

* * *

 

The emissary turns to be one Sally Donovan, an Alpha guard that Gregory actually seems to like and that Sherlock usually finds entirely too easy to get riled up. The female and the younger Prince scowl darkly at each other, but Sherlock is still too lost in his grief to say anything particularly nasty and Donovan seems wary enough of the older Prince to say anything really.

But Mycroft can see her easily engaging Gregory in conversation, making the guard smile and laugh, even if it’s just briefly, and something in him aches. He knows that he has to pull away or risk discovery as soon as they’re back to the Castle, but he wishes…

He thought he could do it.

He’s beginning to suspect he had never been more mistaken in his life.

* * *

 

Donovan provides some insight on what has happened at the Capital during their absence, but for the most part, things seem to have remained pretty much the same. Mycroft worries a bit about Lord Magnussen’s almost permanent presence at the Castle nowadays, but without seeing the man himself, he has no real way to figure out what he’s planning. Gregory clearly trusts Donovan and she’s quite insightful, but there are people in this world that are almost impossible to read.

The sooner they make it back, the better.

“Is there something wrong?” Gregory asks, sitting next to him by the fire. Mycroft looks around, realizing that while he was lost in contemplation, his brother and their new travel companion had gone to sleep. His guard offers him a hesitant smile that Mycroft doesn’t return and so the younger male sighs, dejected. “Did I do something?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft replies coldly, his heart aching at the obvious pain reflected on the other’s face. “I’m just thinking. Some of the things Ms. Donovan said could prove to be- problematic, at some point in the future.”

Gregory hums. “I’ll keep my eyes wide open. And I’ll put my best men-”

Mycroft bites his lip, wondering if they can continue their working relationship. He hopes so, because Gregory is by far one of his best spies, but... god, how he aches... “We need to hurry back. I... There’s a lot to plan.”

The other male nods, placing a hand over his and squeezing softly. “Everything will be fine, Mycroft. We’ll make sure of it.”

He stands up abruptly, his own skin feeling too tight. He can’t do this. He can’t-

Why did he think it could work?

“Mycroft?”

He shakes his head and simply walks away, knowing he can’t go far but wanting to put some distance between himself and his former lover. It’s never going to work; he’ll never see Gregory in the same manner. Things must change now and it was a terrible overlook on his part to believe they wouldn’t need to. It just goes showing how foolish and naive he still is.

Better to have love and lost than never loved at all.

What a bunch of utter nonsense.

* * *

 

The trip back to the Castle is a tense affair that luckily lasts a third of what it took the first time around. Sherlock shows enough good sense to not pick up fights with the Alpha guard and to stay away from the time bomb that Mycroft and Gregory are, so all in all, their travel is uneventful.

By the time Mycroft walks into his room at the Castle, he can feel the tension almost drowning him. His skin itches with it, making him want to yell and cry and curse his bad luck, but he’s determined to get his mind to conquer over his emotions as it used to do and so he sits on his bed, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and attempts to relax.

Of course Mother chooses to come knocking right then. Mycroft smiles tensely at the female and offers her a seat, all the while trying to reign his temper. It won’t do to get Mother to worry and start asking questions.

“How did it go?” she asks calmly, either not noticing or pretending not to notice Mycroft’s inner turmoil.

“As well as it could be expected,” the Prince responds calmly. “He’s- depressed, I would say, but in no danger of harming himself anymore.”

The Queen nods stiffly. “I do wish there had been another way, my dear. You must know that.”

Mycroft wonders why does his mother think this is a good moment for this conversation and promptly decides it doesn’t matter. It’s too late to try to soothe old wounds and so whatever either of them says will be nothing but empty words.

“While I honestly do think my brother is getting better, it might be for the best to have someone keeping him company at all times,” he says slowly, wondering if he really wants to go through with his plan and figuring he really has no other choice. He needs to cut ties with Gregory and at least this way- “You know how difficult he can be,” he adds, when his mother opens her mouth to make a suggestion, no doubt. “It needs to be someone he already knows and someone he trusts.” He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “I’m thinking of appointing Lestrade.”

The Queen watches him quietly, some emotion flashing in her eyes, but it’s gone too quickly for Mycroft to try to analyze it. Finally, she nods. “Have you thought on who you’ll be taking as your personal guard, then?”

“Not yet,” he replies, shrugging noncommittally. “I don’t think it’s a priority right now.”

Mother scoffs and Mycroft turns to her, frowning. “It never hurts to be careful,” she tells him, suddenly looking very tired. “You better decide soon.”

And with that she’s gone, leaving Mycroft with a lot to think about.

* * *

 

He finds himself reluctant of informing Gregory of his decision. He knows it’s the coward’s way and he’s quite ashamed of himself, but he also knows there’s no other option. As much as he wishes they could continue their association, they can’t. Maybe later, when things have cooled off a bit between them but right now…

Oh, why did he allow himself this folly?

“You called?” Gregory asks, peeking through the half closed door. Mycroft takes a deep breath and nods, gesturing for him to come closer. The guard looks confused, but obeys and after seeing Mycroft’s obvious distress, he places a hand over the Prince’s shoulder, attempting to rub soothing circles. “What’s wrong? How can I help?”

God, how he hates him. What gives him the right to be so... so...

“I’ve decided to have you removed as my personal guard and appoint you as Sherlock’s instead,” he says, his tone betraying nothing and Gregory frowns. “From now on, you’ll make sure to keep my brother-”

“So I’m basically Sherlock’s babysitter now?” the younger male asks, not sounding particularly angry and Mycroft dares to hope the situation is not as dire as he feared. “I’ll follow him around and report back to you?”

“No,” the Prince explains, still attempting to keep his emotions under control. “You’ll report to the Queen directly. Our association is, for all intents and purposes, over.”

Gregory looks more confused now and maybe just a tiny bit angry. Mycroft waits stoically, like a criminal waiting for his sentence. “What exactly does that mean, Mycroft?”

“It’s _Your Royal Highness,”_ Mycroft corrects tersely, wondering why exactly isn’t he trying to make the blow less painful. Then again, it wouldn’t do to keep any hope alive. “You’re no longer-”

He can tell that he has succeeded on making the guard angry. He prepares himself for what’s to come, hating himself for doing this, but-

“So this is it?” Gregory asks, his tone dark, but still collected. “You’re just- you’re just going to throw me away, like- like-” he stops himself, taking a deep breath. “I can understand that what we had- I get it, I do, even if we never really talked about it, I... I understand. But this-?”

“It’s simply more convenient,” the Prince explains, telling himself that it’s for the best. That he needs to do this, that in the long run- “this way we’ll spare each other any... unpleasantness.”

“But-”

“I have no wish to deal with your sentimentality anymore, Lestrade. Kindly just abide to my orders now and everything will be perfectly fine.”

“You heartless-!”

Mycroft had predicted some yelling, maybe even some physical blows. What he gets instead is a half choked sob and Gregory’s face contorted in unbearable pain. He forces himself not to react, to remain cool and detached, pretending an indifference he has never really felt.

The guard takes a moment to compose himself, all the while Mycroft observes and tells himself he’s doing the right thing. Gregory deserves to move on, to find someone else and he won’t be doing that if Mycroft doesn’t hold his ground now.

It doesn’t matter how it pains him right now or how it’ll pain him in the future, when his beloved does move on. He knew what he was getting into, he knew the consequences of his acts. He wishes there was other way, but-

“I’ll take my leave then, your Royal Highness,” the guard finally whispers, bowing low. “Shall I inform Prince Sherlock of your decision or do you wish to do that yourself?”

He can’t face Sherlock right now. He knows exactly what his brother will say and Mycroft’s resolve will not waver in the face of his brother’s convincing words. “You might inform him yourself. I have much to do tonight and I can’t spare a moment for such task.”

Gregory nods and bows once more, before leaving the room, closing the door carefully after himself. Mycroft’s legs finally give up and he collapses on the floor, hot tears streaming down his cheeks as he clenches his fists, trying to distract himself with physical pain from the feeling of his heart shattering.

What has he done?

* * *

 

“You cold hearted bastard.”

Mycroft expects his brother’s visit, but he’s not quite prepared for his anger. He turns slowly to face him, one eyebrow arched expectantly and Sherlock growls, stepping closer, crowding Mycroft’s space. “How could you?”

“Why, brother dear-”

“Do you have any idea what I would give to have another chance to-?” his brother is positively seething, looking somewhere between angry and incredibly upset. “And you’re just going to throw it away?”

“It was never meant to last,” he says calmly, forcing himself not to recoil in the face of Sherlock’s very obvious fury. “Gregory knew that.”

“Yes, but he didn’t know you were going to throw him away like a piece of trash!” the younger Prince exclaims angrily, throwing his arms up. “Neither did I, for that matter. Had I known... I would never have...” He glares, now pacing around the room. “How could you?”

“We can’t be together,” Mycroft explains, his tone reasonable. “What use would it be-?”

“Why did you pretend to change your mind back at the Palace, then? Why didn’t you let him believe my lie, let him think you didn’t want him too? Why would you feel the need to be so utterly cruel?”

“I- I don’t-”

“It’s just downright cruel, Mycroft, and nothing you can say will make me think it’s justified. You were cruel and selfish and I...” Sherlock stops on his tracks, turning to glare at his brother once more, “you almost had me fooled this time, you know? I actually- for a while, I actually thought you cared. That you could actually _feel_ something.”

“Sherlock-”

“But you don’t. You’re the heartless bastard I’ve always thought you were. You care for nothing and no one but yourself and the precious Crown. You just... take what you want and fool everyone into believing whatever you need them to believe.”

“Sherlock-”

“Save it,” the Prince interrupts him once more. “I’m not interested in your excuses. And in any case… It’s not me you should be interested in making amends with.”

Mycroft closes his eyes, hurt beyond description by his brother’s words. There was a time when his brother trusted his judgement implicitly, a time when he would have never doubted his good intentions. And now-

“You’ll understand one day,” he says, sounding defeated and Sherlock scoffs.

“I dearly hope I don’t,” he replies darkly. “It would mean I have turned into you.”

* * *

 

“I hear your trip went well,” his father tells him the next day at the breakfast table, his tone casual. Mycroft tenses, not trusting the King’s apparent nonchalance and quickly forces himself to remain calm.

“As well as it could,” Mycroft replies evenly, looking at his brother from the corner of his eye. Sherlock ignores him pointedly and the Prince tells himself not to take offense in that. “It was a pleasant vacation.”

The King nods somberly. “Vacations are always good, of course, but I’m glad to have you back.” He turns his attention to Sherlock then and Mycroft holds his breath, anguished. “And I hope you’re done with your foolishness, boy.”

Sherlock looks up, a look of pure contempt on his face, making Mycroft’s breath catch. “I assure you, father, there’ll be no more foolish business in the future.”

The King nods, pleased with the answer and Mycroft wonders if he missed the Prince’s dark tone or if he simply doesn’t care.

It doesn’t matter, either way. It seems that there’s nothing but hurt lying in front of him.

Nothing for it, really. Acts always have consequences and if we don’t want to deal with them, we shouldn’t act in the first place.

What a hard learned lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> As I said, the ‘fluff’ is officially over. I’m worried about character development, because this whole chapter seems like I undid all of Mycroft’s progress, but it does feel in character to me so… I don’t know.  
> Next chapters are a bit of a mess, so next update might take a bit longer because I have to really edit them. The plot might be moving along a little too quickly, John and Greg insist on doing what they please and not what the author had planned for them to do, Magnussen is even worse than I originally planned, Jim is being difficult and I’m not writing nearly enough angst so… yeah, it might take a while.  
> In the meantime, I’m posting a companion piece for this chapter, running from Greg’s POV while he deals with Sherlock. I think I’ll be posting it by the end of the week, I just need to decide if I want to write a tiny bit more of angst or not. Also, I might write yet another companion piece that, chronologically, should be taking place before this whole story began.  
> Anyway, let me know what you thought?  
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Pointless prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets always come to light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always meant for the fic to take this direction. I never quite expected it turn so complicated though (I don’t know why). I’m trying my best to make sure it makes some sort of sense, but I worry quite a bit about that…  
> Anyway, enjoy?

“Am I being paranoid?”

“In all honesty? Probably.” Mycroft glares and his guard smirks cockily. “Of course not, your Royal Highness. You’re being perfectly reasonable.”

The Prince observes her for a while, not certain if she’s being sarcastic or not, wondering not for the first time if appointing Lady Anthea Vryzas as his personal guard was a bad idea. The female is brilliant and quick on her feet, but she has too much of Alpha’s cockiness for Mycroft’s comfort.

Having six older Alpha brothers, the female had little chance of inheriting her father’s Baron title, let alone his fortune. Therefore the woman had decided to make a life for herself and joined the Royal Guard six years ago, quickly climbing ranks due her brightness (her privileged background also helped, of course, but it wasn’t the main reason behind her success) . She had catched the Prince’s eye two years ago and he quickly realized she would make a great spy so he made sure to keep her close and after the fall out with Gregory…

Well, it had seemed like a good idea at the moment. Now, nearly 13 months later, he asks himself more often than not what was he thinking. “I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, Anthea.”

The female smiles, offering him an innocent look. Mycroft rolls his eyes and goes back to the reports spread across the table. “Is Lord Magnussen visiting again?”

“Yes,” she replies seriously, no track of her previous amusement visible. “There are still no news on his whereabouts from a month ago, although one of our men assures me there’s a rumor he was seen at the Northern Borders.”

“What would he be doing there?” Mycroft wonders aloud, leaning back on his seat, staring intently at Anthea. “It makes no sense.”

The female shrugs, but she does look wary. “We’re still trying to figure that out. Would you like me to send someone to investigate?”

Mycroft considers his options cautiously. Lord Magnussen has ears and eyes all across the Kingdom and the Prince wouldn’t want to do anything that might rise the Earl’s suspicions. However- “Is Major Sholto still coming in the spring?”

“Yes, as he does every year to deliver his report.”

Not exactly ideal, but it’ll have to do. Mycroft nods to himself. “Good. Make sure he stops for a talk with me before leaving.”

Anthea nods. “Anything else you need from me, my Prince?”

Mycroft bites his lip. “Any news on my brother?”

“On his way back,” the Alpha guard replies evenly. “Should be back in time for the Ball.”

The Prince sighs, running a hand through his hair. He hadn’t been entirely convinced that letting Sherlock go back to the Winter Palace so soon was a good idea and now- “It’s going to be a disaster.”

Anthea doesn’t reply, but Mycroft knows she shares his opinion. Still, there’s nothing he can do and trying to convince Mother that the Ball is a bad idea would be useless. Nothing to do but endure. “You may retire. Keep me informed of Lord Magnussen's movements.”

Anthea bows and hurries to exit the room, leaving the Prince alone with his thoughts.

He can tell a storm is coming and he’s powerless to stop it.

* * *

 

When Mycroft walks into the dinning room later that day, he can’t say he’s surprised by Lord Magnussen’s presence, even if he had been praying he wouldn’t run into the man. There’s something about the Earl that has always made his skin crawl and so he tries to avoid him as much as possible, without being outwardly rude.

Which is more than a little difficult, considering he’s one of Father’s most trusted advisors due they fact they sort of grew up together.

“My Lord,” he greets politely, taking his usual place at the table. “What a pleasure to see you again. And so soon too.” He knows his tone betrays a little of his displeasure and so he bites his lip, looking down at his plate and praying his father didn’t notice.

“Oh, I always enjoy visiting the Capital, Your Highness,” the Earl replies evenly, a smirk on his lips, letting Mycroft know he did catch his tone. “And if I may be a little forward, it’s always a joy to see you, my Prince.”

An unpleasant shiver runs down Mycroft’s spine, but he smiles at their guest. He resolutely turns to stare at his plate then, deciding not to speak anymore unless it’s absolutely necessary.

The topic of the conversation between his father and their guest goes over his head, knowing Magnussen is smart enough to not reveal anything about his plans in the middle of dinner. Whatever the man is planning can’t be good, which is why Mycroft has made sure to keep an eye on him since he was old enough to realize there was something _wrong_ about the man, but-

“-not exactly appropriate behaviour. What that boy needs is an Alpha to keep him under control.”

The King nods and Mycroft snaps into attention. What are they talking about? “I have to agree with you of course, Charles. Mating him off would be for everyone’s best interests.”

“He’s still a child,” the Queen intervenes, her tone demure even if her eyes flash with annoyance. “Waiting for him to make a decision-”

“With all due respect, your Majesty, you can’t expect the boy to make a sensible decision. Prince Sherlock is nothing like the Crown Prince; not an ounce of good sense in that one.”

Mycroft bites the inside of his mouth, drawing blood. He knows he shouldn’t say anything, but- “I still think-”

“And on that account, and please do pardon my forwardness, your Majesty, but the Crown Prince should have made a decision a while ago too.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, forcing himself not to snap at the man. He shares a dark look with his mother over the table and promptly looks down again, knowing better than to try to say something. “Well Charles,” the King says affably, “I did offer you that honor.”

Mycroft freezes, dread suddenly feeling his every pore. No, Father wouldn’t- he promised he would get to choose! He can’t- he wouldn’t-

Magnussen laughs heartily. “And I told you I’m too old for him. I doubt the Prince has much interest in an old man like myself, huh?”

Mycroft tries to get his breathing under control, realizing he’s close to panicking. Of all the Alphas in the Kingdom, Charles Augustus Magnussen is the one he would most definitely not choose and it has nothing to do with the fact the man is old enough to be his father. He clenches his fists, willing himself to stay controlled, but-

The King hums thoughtfully. “Maybe you should take a stroll after dinner. Talk a bit.”

“Of course, Father,” Mycroft agrees as calmly as he can, seeing Magnussen smirking from the corner of his eye. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

The Earl’s smirk widens and Mycroft realizes he can’t stomach another bite.

He’s in for a most unpleasant evening.

* * *

 

“Oh, do relax, Your Highness,” Magnussen tells him while they stroll through the gardens. The night is a bit chilly so the place is completely deserted, which only helps to make Mycroft’s unease grow. “I promise I don’t bite, unless it’s necessary.” He offers him a predatory smile and it takes every bit of the Prince’s self control for him not to run away.

They continue walking in silence, Mycroft unsure of what he ought to do or say. He knows that being mated to Magnussen would be completely awful, but how to convince Father-?

“I have no intention of asking for your hand, you know,” the Earl tells him, breaking the tense silence. “For starters, it would be a nightmare to be married to you. Too... feisty for my tastes.” Mycroft narrows his eyes, not sure how to take that, feeling somewhere between offended and relieved. “Secondly, it wouldn’t advance my plans at all.” He smirks and Mycroft knows he hasn’t been as stealthy as he thought. “Oh, you’re good, Your Highness, but you still have a lot to learn. And I do have eyes everywhere in the Kingdom, including the Castle, as your brother and friend can testify. Well, maybe not the friend. Dead, isn’t he?”

Mycroft stops dead on his tracks, glaring at his interlocutor who is just smiling pleasantly at him. “You were the one who told Father?”

Magnussen rolls his eyes. “It’s not like they were being discreet in the first place.” He looks away,thoughtful. “Your Father lacks any true vision, though. Throwing away such a precious board piece... So much wasted potential.”

He’s right, of course. Had Father not sent John to the Borders, he could have used him to get Sherlock to do whatever he pleased. Heck, he could have gotten Mycroft to do anything too, if only to spare his brother the pain of losing the man he loved.

Magnussen smirks. “Well, no use on crying over spilled milk. Next time I’ll make sure to keep my cards close to my heart and not share them with anyone.” Mycroft stares at him, wondering what else does the man has under his sleeve. “You want to hear the third reason why I wouldn’t marry you, Your Highness?” he asks, his tone conspiratorial, leaning close and making the Prince want to step away. “I have no interest on spoiled goods.”

Mycroft’s eyes widen a bit, enough for the Earl to know his threat has registered. How does he know-?

It doesn’t matter, no really. “If that’s all, I’ll bid you good night, my Lord," Mycroft says evenly, not allowing his unease to show. He doesn’t have a clue of how Magnussen found out about him and Gregory, but it’s clear as water that he won’t hesitate to use the knowledge against the Prince, should the need arise.

Such revelation would be catastrophic; if anyone else was to find out that Mycroft is no longer a virgin, he would be rendered unsuitable for marriage, therefore unsuitable to be King and so Sherlock would be turned into the Crown Prince, a position that he’s not fit for as it would most definitely break his spirit. Mycroft would be disowned, forever shamed and, if he was lucky, exiled. As for Gregory-

With his stomach twisted with worry, the Prince hurries towards his chambers, feeling sick the whole time. He never imagined-

God, how did he allow himself to get into this mess?

* * *

 

Later that night he lies in bed, tossing and turning, trying to figure out what he ought to do now. Magnussen is hardly someone to make such a threat carelessly. Informing Mycroft that he knows about his dalliance must serve a bigger purpose than just scaring the Prince a little, but what-?

He also hates the way Magnussen’s words keep ringing inside his head. He’s not ‘spoiled goods’, even if the entirety of the nobility does believe that an Omega’s worth resides first in their virginity and then on their success in carrying children. He doesn’t believe that, he doesn’t care for that and yet-

He stands up and decides to start sorting through his paperwork, well aware that sleep will elude him all night long. He must admit that, on occasion, he deeply envies commoners, who don’t have to deal with all this gender nonsense. Alphas and Omegas may do as they please; with the constant worry about meeting the month’s end, there’s no time to worry about what a certain gender ought to or doesn’t ought to be doing.

No use in thinking about that, of course. These are the cards he has been handed and he’ll play them as well as he can. Wishing for things to be different won’t make them change at all. Pointless to wonder about what ifs.

And yet-

* * *

 

Mycroft holds himself very still, sensing there’s something _wrong_ as he watches his brother come into the Castle, closely followed by Gregory, who is looking wary. Sherlock greets Mother politely, answering her questions about his trip nicely, looking entirely too cheerful for Mycroft’s comfort.

The Queen doesn’t seem to find anything odd, as she smiles kindly at her youngest son. Mycroft looks around, still wary of his brother’s good mood and that’s when he realizes he didn’t come back alone.

Molly Hooper stands back, holding a little bulge to her chest.

Oh god, could things get any worse?

* * *

 

“How could you allow it?” Mycroft hisses darkly, once the door has closed behind him. Gregory looks startled by his sudden appearance for a beat, but he recovers quickly, standing up and holding the Prince’s stare.

“Since when does Sherlock listen to me?” the guard asks rhetorically and Mycroft growls.

“It’s your duty-”

“Well, with all due respect Your Royal Highness, my duty is to make sure the Prince doesn’t end up killing himself. Letting Molly and Abby come with us-”

“Oh, you know what I mean!”

Gregory stares at him and Mycroft can tell he’s trying very hard not to roll his eyes at him, which only succeeds in making him angrier. “The Queen agreed-”

“My mother doesn’t know that my brother has just brought his bastard daughter into the Castle!” Mycroft exclaims, letting anger get the best of him. “What do you think will happen when she finds out-?”

“Well, we’ll just have to make sure she doesn’t, won’t we?” Gregory interrupts him darkly. “If we’re careful-”

“Carefulness is for naught!” The Prince yells, feeling a tad hysterical. “Weren’t we careful? Didn’t I push you away as soon as we were back to avoid suspicion due any change on my behavior? And yet Magnussen found out and now-”

“What?”

Mycroft interrupts himself abruptly, realizing he has revealed more than he intended. He wasn’t planning on letting Gregory know about the threat that hangs over their heads, knowing it wouldn’t be helpful at all and yet-

“Mycroft, what did Lord Magnussen exactly say?”

The older male looks away, biting his lip. “He called me ‘spoiled goods’.”

For a beat, neither speaks. Then the guard lets out a loud and angry curse, frustrated and then quickly proceeds to place a hand over Mycroft’s shoulder, in what the Prince supposes it’s meant to be a reassuring gesture.

It doesn’t work, mainly because Gregory looks quite distressed himself, but he appreciates the intention.

“So what now?”

Mycroft shrugs, feeling a bit helpless. “It’s too late for us to do anything. As you said, we’ll just have to be extra careful. Make sure Sherlock doesn’t spend ridiculous amount of time looking after his daughter and...” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “We’ll have to hope for the best.”

Gregory is staring at him intently and the Prince has the sudden urge to be held, but he forces himself to remain outwardly cold. Unnerved, he decides it’s better if he just leaves now, before he does or says something stupid.

But before he can though, Gregory grabs him by the wrist, pulling him closer and Mycroft goes willingly, his mind screaming this is a terrible idea but incapable of controlling his body. “You’re not spoiled goods.”

He chuckles, humorless. “The whole nobility would disagree with you.”

“Because they’re idiots that think that virginity means a damn thing. You’re flawless, Mycroft, no matter what others think.” It figures that Gregory would notice that such thing was bothering him. He knows it shouldn’t, he knows it’s ridiculous and yet-

Gregory caresses the side of his face lovingly, making Mycroft’s breath catch. “And even if you weren’t, I would love you the same.”

Something unclenches inside him. He is well aware that he can’t indulge into this illusion of a relationship again, especially not now, but what he would give to be able to- “I have to go.”

Gregory nods and lets go of him, making Mycroft immediately feel a thousand times colder. He takes a steadying breath and turns around, forcing himself to exit the room calmly, like he hadn’t been affected by the conversation.

God, this is a complete nightmare.

* * *

 

“You’ll go to the Ball without a fuss and you’ll be polite to all our guests. No veiled insults, no sarcasm, no outright rudeness, Sherlock. The situation is precarious enough-”

“Lestrade says that Magnussen threatened you,” the Prince interrupts him smoothly, his back still at him. “Is it true?”

Mycroft closes his eyes, willing himself to remain calm. “It doesn’t matter. Sherlock-”

“I still think you’re an idiot, but I’m beginning to see maybe you did have a point,” the younger male continues, as if Mycroft hadn’t spoken at all. “And I suppose that, in your way, you do care.”

“Of course I care!” the Crown Prince snaps angrily. “It would be so much easier if I didn’t, but I just can’t... turn it off!” he sighs, running a hand over his face tiredly. “I might care too much.”

Sherlock hums, thoughtfully. “Maybe we do,” he agrees, finally turning to face his brother. “So, what are we going to do?” Mycroft frowns and so the younger one rolls his eyes. “About Magnussen, of course. You’re planning something.”

“He’s planning something,” Mycroft corrects him. “I just plan to outdo him.”

Sherlock smirks, his eyes full of mischief for the first time in what feels like forever. “Well then, let’s do that.”

It’s a bad idea to let his baby brother get involved. Magnussen is dangerous and he won’t hesitate to harm either Prince if it suits his needs; letting Sherlock get involved is just asking for all kind of trouble.

But Mycroft must admit it would improve his chances of success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> I feel like there is something missing. Not sure what, so… feel free to point out if something is terribly confusing or unbelievable.  
> Since I’m not sure what’s going to happen this week (I’m supposed to get fired at some point this week, but my boss is being very mysterious about it because he enjoys drama far too much) I’m not sure when I will be updating. If things go as I’m thinking, I’d expect to update on Friday, but we’ll see.  
> In the meantime, thanks for reading!  
> BTW, the companion piece to chapter 8 and that deals with the time in between chapters is up and it's called "wasted chances".


	10. Pointless distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never let your guard down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as I promised, here’s a new chapter! It might come across as a little rushed but well...  
> Enjoy?

In paper, the Ball is too celebrate 100 years of peace.

Anyone with eyes and half a brain can see the Ball for what it really is though: a blatant attempt to show the Princes off and hope they’ll finally find a Mate.

It’s meant to be a great event, with all the noble families of the Kingdom and some from far away attending. The preparations have been going on for over 6 months and Mycroft is just praying they’ll be done with it very soon.

Technically, Sherlock should be the one in charge of preparations; such responsibilities usually falling unto the younger sibling, but the teenager Prince is too busy entertaining his ‘new’ friend (and he has never taken his responsibilities too seriously, anyway). If he’s not careful, Ms. Hooper might end up facing the same fate John did; if the King finds out he’s being a little too friendly with another Alpha commoner…

Mycroft worries endlessly. Not only for Molly, but also for Abigail. The baby doesn’t look anything like Sherlock, but she’s resembling John more and more with every day that passes and with any luck nobody will ever make the connection, but-

How could Sherlock be so damn reckless? He knew why it was safer for Abigail to stay with Mrs. Hudson at the Winter Palace and yet-

Well, nothing for it now. He’ll just have to carry on as if nothing was wrong.

Easier said than done.

* * *

 

But even if Sherlock is constantly distracted by his baby daughter (under the pretense of spending time with Molly), he does keep his word of helping Mycroft to figure out Magnussen’s plot. Sherlock makes connections that nobody else could and Mycroft is quite surprised not only by his brother’s deductions (that match his, most of the time), but for how easily he manages to find proof of them. Mycroft has never cared much for legwork, but Sherlock takes to it naturally, like he was born for this.

Of course Mycroft wouldn’t turn his brother into his Spymaster, but he’s very tempted to.

Molly and Gregory help him as much as they can, even if half of the time they’re not sure what exactly Sherlock expects of them. Mycroft just observes, pleased with the outcome, but also worried about where this might lead them. They’re uncovering an apparently very dangerous, very secret underground network and it just doesn’t bode well for the future.

Just what exactly have they gotten themselves into?

* * *

 

The day of the Ball finally arrives and so Mycroft gets ready for it. He hates attending this type of social functions, but it’s not like he can claim illness and stay in his room. He’s expected to play the part of the perfect host and he has little doubt that his parents hope that he will finally find someone he’ll be interested in mating.

The problem is that he has already found someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with, but the King and Queen will never approve of him.

He knocks on his brother’s door, knowing that if he doesn’t escort the young Prince to the Ball, Sherlock will somehow manage to find a way to not show up at all. Sherlock opens the door and glares at him, a slight pout on his lips.

“Ready?”

“Never,” Sherlock replies darkly and when Mycroft glares, he sighs. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose. Let’s get this over with.”

Mycroft can only offer him a sympathetic smile.

The night is bound to be hellish.

* * *

 

The Princes stand by themselves in the corner of the room, watching people dance and drink around them. Mycroft is well aware that they’re expected to socialize and Mother has been sending dark glares in their direction for the last hour, but-

“Will you grant me the honour of this dance, Your Royal Highness?”

Sherlock snorts and the female in front of them smirks. “Don’t you have other Omegas to harass, Irene?” the Prince asks airily and Mycroft glares at his brother, hoping the Princess won’t take offense.

She doesn’t. She laughs brightly, tugging the Prince by the wrist. “Of course I do, but I was hoping to dance with you first.” And with that she pulls him towards the dance floor. Sherlock goes with her, making sure to show his displeasure, but at least he doesn’t cause a big scene.

Mycroft watches his brother dance with the foreign Princess, well aware of his parents’ pleased smiles. It would be for the best if Sherlock did marry Irene, but he also knows that that’s unlikely to happen. He has never really found out what transpired between John and Irene, but it most definitely soured Sherlock’s disposition towards the female.

A pity, really. If Mycroft had to pick an Alpha for his baby brother, he would pick Irene without a doubt. The woman is as smart and curious as his brother and they would butt heads more often than not, but he’s certain they would reach an understanding eventually. Besides, Irene wouldn’t keep his brother as a trophy; something to be admired and possessed. They might never grow to love each other, but they would respect each other.

All in all, not the worst choice there is.

The song ends and Sherlock takes the chance to pull away from Irene. The female pouts mockingly, but quickly turns her attention to another pretty Omega standing on her own. Mycroft sighs and watches as his brother makes his way back to him, wondering if he ought to try to convince him of the merits of marrying Irene.

Just then someone steps into Sherlock’s path. The Prince stops dead on his tracks, frowning at the man standing in front of him. Mycroft forces himself not to hurry to his brother’s side, even if every instinct in his body is urging him to.

Duke James Moriarty bows politely and offers Sherlock his hand. The Prince hesitates for a beat, but he must catch sight of Mother’s glare and takes it, even if he looks far from pleased.

Now that could be problematic.

It’s easy to see that the Duke has been interested in Sherlock since forever. Of course he has been very proper about it, never once trying anything too forward, but anyone with eyes could see how badly he wanted the younger Prince. Mycroft wouldn’t say the interest is strictly one-sided, although he’s fairly certain that Sherlock’s isn’t romantic or sexual. If anything, he’s mostly intrigued by the mysterious Duke.

Being an only child, James Moriarty had inherited his father’s title at the tender age of 10, when the Duke and the Duchess had succumbed to sickness. Although young, the boy showed talent in managing his father’s inheritance, having an almost unnatural talent for business and politics. All most impressive, really, but-

There’s something… _dark_ about him that Mycroft doesn’t like. He particularly doesn’t like the idea of having his little brother mated to him: Moriarty is exactly the kind of Alpha that would break Sherlock’s spirit. He’s interested on actually _possessing_ Sherlock and he wouldn’t hesitate to go to any extreme necessary to ensure just that.

He’s dangerous, no doubt about that.

The song ends and Sherlock hurries to try to escape once more, but Moriarty has him firmly held by the wrist. The touch is gentle, but insistent and so Mycroft decides it’s time to go to his brother’s rescue, regardless of knowing it’ll cause displeasure to his parents.

“Would you mind if I cut in, Your Grace?” he says calmly, smoothly prying his brother’s wrist from the Duke’s grasp. The other man glares briefly, but quickly smooths his expression into a polite blank mask.

“Of course not, Your Royal Highness,” Moriarty hisses and then turns back to Sherlock. “Although I do hope you’ll grant me another dance before the night is over, Your Highness.”

Sherlock shares a look with his brother and then smiles forcefully. “We’ll see. For now, I bid you goodbye, Your Grace.”

Moriarty looks quite angry, but Mycroft hurries to take his brother into his arms and spin him into a dance before the other man can utter another word. Sherlock remains tense for a few moments, but eventually relaxes, following Mycroft’s lead smoothly. For a while, neither speak and finally Sherlock breaks the silence. “There’s something off with him,” he whispers, stepping closer than what’s strictly proper between dance partners. From the corner of his eye Mycroft can see the King frowning, but figures it’s better if they keep this conversation as private as possible.

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

Mycroft’s steps falter, but he quickly recovers. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“What choice do I have?” his brother asks calmly. “It might help us uncover the bigger mystery.” He bites his lip, probably sensing Mycroft’s next protestation. “I’ll be careful.”

The Crown Prince sighs, knowing that’s all he can hope for.

Doesn’t mean he likes it.

In fact he doesn’t, not one bit.

* * *

 

Mycroft is aware his time is running short. Regardless of his mother’s assurances, he had always known Father would eventually get fed up with his continual refusal of suitors and would force him into making a choice. Now he’s 25, hardly old, but he’s considered practically an spinster. His chances of actually marrying diminish with each passing month and so he isn’t surprised at all when Mother practically throws him into the arms of every eligible Alpha attending the Ball.

He doesn’t try to escape his fate, knowing it wouldn’t end well. Besides, considering the little ‘espectacle’ he and his brother gave earlier (dancing together, at their age, completely scandalous!) he doesn’t want to give his parents any more reason for them to be mad at him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, escapes the dance before midnight, when the King and Queen are busy talking to some Diplomats. Mycroft dearly wishes he could be as reckless as his brother, but well… he just can’t.

That’s another reason why Mycroft knows he must be the one who becomes King. His brother will break under the pressure and that could be terribly dangerous. So for now, he most definitely must play Magnussen’s game, not only for his and Gregory’s sake, but also for Sherlock’s.

The man in question pulls him into a dance, much to the King’s pleasure. Mycroft keeps himself smiling politely, his eyes cold as steel, but the Earl seems mostly amused by his display of dislike. They don’t talk, but there’s no need for it; they have already said all the other needs to know.

A most dangerous game and Mycroft must figure out all the rules before everything comes crashing down around him. He needs to plan his next move now, even if he still doesn’t know the final objective.

He’s running out of time.

A recurrent theme in his life lately.

* * *

 

The month following the Ball is filled with meetings with nobles and foreign Diplomats. Mycroft attends most negotiations, but his presence is quite frowned upon. It’s true that he’ll be King one day, but only in name since his Mate will be the one with real power. Whatever Mycroft tries to do will have to go past his partner first and so he’ll forever be rewarded as mostly ornamental.

Which makes the matter of choosing an appropriate Mate all more important.

He needs someone that won’t be much interested in power, someone willing to go with Mycroft’s decisions. Someone who won’t fight him every step of the way, nor will they try to do as they please. Tricky, to find a noble like that, but he’s hoping it’s not impossible.

Luckily, the King is in prime health, otherwise his marriage would be even more pressing. No Omega has ever ruled on their own and Mycroft knows for sure he won’t be allowed to be the first one to do so. Still-

He knows he’s just postponing the inevitable. He really doesn’t know why he bothers.

And yet-

* * *

 

The life expectancy of the soldiers at the Northern Borders is of one year. Major Sholto, in charge of the regiment, has lasted 15. The man is a talented fighter and a brilliant strategist and whoever decided that sending him to the Northern Borders to die was a good idea certainly didn’t know him very well. If nothing else, the man seems capable of surviving any mortal wound by the force of sheer will.

Admirable, really.

Mycroft watches the man closely, as he delivers his usual report on the situation at the Border. The Major arrived a month earlier than expected, which is quite unusual and potentially troubling. So far, nothing in his report seems to suggest that there’s something wrong, but-

“The most recent attacks, however, seem to follow a disturbing pattern; it’s almost like they’re not interested in stealing anything. Of course there’s some pillage, but for the most part the main objective seems to be the carnage. It’s- well, we’ve lost more men in the last two months than we did in the last two years and no matter how many men the Capital keeps sending, at this rate-”

“What are you implying, Major?” the King asks harshly and Mycroft bites his lip, knowing exactly what the man is saying.

“I fear we’re about to be attacked, your Majesty. A real attack; an actual invasión.”

Mycroft looks at his father, who seems mostly skeptical. That’s not good, not at all. If his father doesn’t see just how worrisome this potential threat can be- “We’ve been at peace for 100 years,” the King  says, his tone calm and reasonable, the one he uses when he feels people are being particularly dull. “An invasion right now would make no sense. All our relationships with our neighboring Kingdoms-”

Mycroft sends a look in the Major’s direction, urging him not to get into a fight with the King. Sholto seems to understand and so he holds back his comments, even if it’s obvious he’s frustrated by the King’s lack of interest.

Mycroft’s feelings on the subject match the Major’s, of course. If Father is determined not to take the threat seriously, Mycroft won’t make the same mistake.

He’ll take the matters into his own hands.

* * *

 

There’s tension on the Major’s shoulders as he sits on the edge of the seat, like he’s readying himself for an attack. Years of living on such an hostile environment probably justify some of his paranoia, but Mycroft wouldn’t say his behavior is completely irrational in the light of the most recent events.

He shares a look with Anthea, who stands stoically next to him, her face betraying nothing. Sholto spares  a quick glance in her direction, but he must decide she’s nothing to worry about. And she isn’t, unless the Crown Prince happens to order her to be.

Loyal and capable, that she is. So he supposes that that makes up for her smart mouth.

Sometimes.

He misses his previous guard, though. He knew he could trust Gregory and while the Beta hadn’t been able to seemingly read his mind most of the time, he certainly could anticipate his orders well enough.

But that’s not here or there, really. Right now- “Who do you think is leading the attacks?” the Prince asks evenly and Sholto stares at him for the longest time, surveying him. Mycroft arches an eyebrow expectantly and the other man sighs.

“May I speak plainly, your Royal Highness?”

“You may,” Mycroft agrees, frowning. There’s something in the soldier’s tone-

“I think the threat comes from within. Taking over the border is a very needed move if one pretends to take over the Kingdom: most of our commerce comes through there. Also, if any ally was to offer help, it would make more sense for them to come through the North. Our relationship with our neighbors from the south is… distant at best; they won’t be coming to our aid, so basically, should the Northern Border be taken over, we would be practically insulated,” he pauses, measuring his next words. “As the King said, any country that could be attacking is, in paper at least, an ally and uninterested in war. But inside our very borders… well, the King isn’t nearly as loved as Lord Magnussen and the other advisors would have him believe.”

Mycroft nods. He had been noticing this in the last few years, but he hadn’t thought- “But who would try to overthrow the Royal Family?” he asks out loud, mostly to himself. While most nobles might not agree with his father’s politics, most wouldn’t be interested on a civil war. Those things are dangerous, easy for them to go out of control and-

“The threat, I believe, comes from inside the King’s close circle. I believe there’s a plot to- well, not exactly overthrown the Royal Family but to- take control out of their hands.”

As the words leave the Major’s lips, an image starts forming in Mycroft’s mind. If Father died and with only two Omegas in line for succession, the real power would fall to whoever was mated to either Prince. But Mycroft would never mate someone who would take the control over the Kingdom away from him, unless…

If Magnussen knows about him and Gregory, who is to say he doesn’t know about Abigail? And if he does know about his niece then-

Sherlock. The real target is Sherlock.

The Prince breaks into a cold sweat, the plot going beneath them suddenly terrifying clear: murder the King, murder him, have Sherlock become King. Blackmail him into marriage, seize power without war. But then-

“Why bother with the border?” he asks aloud once more. “If- if they plan to take over the Kingdom without using force-”

Sholto frowns. “I’ll admit it doesn’t make much sense to me either. Unless… unless they’re expecting things not to go smoothly.” He pauses, seizing the Prince up once more. “Which, based on what I’ve seen so far, makes a lot of sense. You’re really quite something, Your Royal Highness.”

Mycroft blinks, a wave of bashfulness nearly overwhelming him. He’s not quite used to compliments, especially not on his way of thinking which is mostly considered too Alpha-ish. He smiles tightly. “It’s my duty to look over the Kingdom, Major. My father might not be the best of leaders, but I do think it would be in everyone’s best interests not to have one of the conspirators on the throne.”

Sholto shrugs. “Mostly, I think it would be on everyone’s best interests to have _you_ on the the throne,” he says and Mycroft can feel himself blushing. “But for the moment, yes, keeping traitors away from it might be a good idea.” He pauses again, hesitant. “There’s another reason they might be interested on the border, though: they could be expecting outside help. But that seems rather far fetched.”

But not impossible. A possibility worth reviewing, in any case. “Without any proof however, I’m afraid my hands are officially tied,” Mycroft says darkly, a bit frustrated by the facts. “I would, however, ask you to keep me informed on any… suspicious behavior.”

The Major nods and Mycroft knows that, for now, that’s all he can do. The problem is that he can’t go to Father with his suspicions, because it would imply risking the King finding out things he most definitely should never know. He must fight this war alone or risk losing too much (everything).

Besides, it’s been a long while since Father trusted his judgement implicitly. Without evidence, he won’t be heard.

And yet, even if proof could be found… he can’t doom his niece and brother, he won’t doom himself and his ex lover. There must be something-

“On a slightly different vein, I was hoping to get an audience with the younger Prince. Would that-?”

“Whatever for?” Mycroft demands, his worries about the future suddenly taking the back of his mind, as he narrows his eyes at his interlocutor. The Major seems a bit surprised by his sudden change of tone, but recovers quickly.

“A rather personal matter, I’m afraid. I... I was entrusted to deliver something to him.”

And just like that, Mycroft knows what this is about. “He’s still alive?”

Sholto seems to hesitate once more and Mycroft can tell that John has already won the man over. What is about John Watson that makes people so sympathetic towards him? “Yes,” the older man finally replies and Mycroft nods, knowing better than to press for more information.

“Anthea, please escort Major Sholto to my brother’s room.” The female Alpha arches an eyebrow questioningly but the Prince just shakes his head and she hurries to comply.

Once alone, Mycroft allows himself to dwell on what he has learned this afternoon as he tries to come up with a plan.

But he really doesn’t have time, does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.. thoughts anyone? I’m a little worried about continuity and how much sense I’m making. I feel the plot might be moving a bit too quickly? I had planned to set a slower pace but well… my writing run away from me (as usual)  
> Since I don’t know if I’ll still be working next week, I can’t say when will the next update be up. I can tell you there’s a companion piece for this chapter that should be post at some point next week (again, not sure when)  
> Anyway, thanks for reading and let me know if something is horribly confusing or not making sense!


	11. Pointless sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate times call for desperate meassures...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing about being unemployed is that I have little access to the computer. So I’m reading a lot, and thinking a lot… but I’m writing very little.  
> Oh well, enjoy?

As he expected, he finds Sherlock at one of the watching towers facing the North. His brother can be dreadfully predictable at times and Mycroft isn’t sure how he feels about that. On one hand, it’s always good to know what Sherlock is up to, but sometimes…

The younger Prince turns to him when he hears him approaching and offers him a quick smile, before his eyes get dragged to the North once more. He’s toying with something between his fingers and Mycroft supposes John has managed to send him some sentimental trinket. Another thing he’s unsure how to feel about.

That the doctor is still alive should be good news, or at least it should ease some of Sherlock’s pain, but on the other hand, this hope is absolutely pointless. They won’t be seeing each other again, not in this life at least, so what’s the use-?

“You still don’t understand,” Sherlock says, not facing him, bitter amusement in his tone. “And you call yourself the smart one?”

Mycroft bristles at that, but hurries to calm himself down. “I suppose that regarding feelings I might be a bit slower than you, brother mine.”

Sherlock chuckles mirthlessly at that. “Indeed,” he replies, slipping whatever he was toying with into his pocket. “On that vein, would you care to know that dear Lestrade has finally gotten over his ridiculous pining and has gotten back in the game, so to speak?”

Mycroft’s heart clenches painfully but remains outwardly unmoved. “Has he now? That’s... nice.”

Sherlock turns to face him, making sure that older male catches him rolling his eyes dramatically. “How is that you’re the discrete one?” The Prince tells him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Could you make your jealousy any more obvious?”

Mycroft sighs, avoiding his brother’s gaze. “It’s for the best. And in the light of the recent events…”

“Mycroft-”

“It seems that Lord Magnussen has gotten into his head to take over the Kingdom. If... if I’m right, things are more complicated than what we originally thought.”

Sherlock frowns, processing what the older male has said. He looks curious enough, so Mycroft knows that at least for now, he’ll forget about their conversation rewarding Lestrade. All for the best, because he really doesn’t want to know what Sherlock means with ‘getting back in the game’.

He has no time for that. There are more pressing matters to attend to.

And yet-

* * *

 

Sherlock stares at him, his fingers interlaced beneath his chin, his expression thoughtful. Mycroft takes a sip of his by now cold tea and makes a face, wondering if he ought to call for a maid. He has spent the last hour explaining to his brother the conspiracy going beneath them and between the two of them, they have unraveled as much of the conspirator’s plan as they can, but still, there are things that don’t make much sense and-

“Duke Moriarty made an offer for my hand last week,” Sherlock tells him suddenly, just when Mycroft had decided that he didn’t want more tea, but some wine might be in order. “Mother convinced Father to let me think it through but… well, they’re obviously expecting me to accept.”

Mycroft stares at him, baffled. “What?” he asks stupidly, but his brain just seems to have shut down. Sherlock rolls his eyes, leaning back on his seat.

“What you heard,” he replies evenly. “I don’t think he’s involved though, because we both know that he and Magnussen can’t stand each other but if I was to accept-”

“Absolutely not!” Mycroft exclaims, perhaps a little too vehemently, but the mere idea of seeing his brother mated to that- that-

“What choice do we have?” his brother argues, his face grim. “If I marry Moriarty, the conspirators-”

“We don’t know if Moriarty isn’t involved-”

“He isn’t. If he was, he would have already let me know what would happen if I said no,” Sherlock interrupts harshly, standing up and starting to pace around the room. “I don’t like the idea any more than you do, but it could buy us time-”

“Time for what?”

“I don’t know!” the younger male exclaims, frustrated. “Listen… if I’m married, Magnussen can no longer threaten my daughter. Father would no longer have any say on what I do, nor any say on whether or not I should be punished for my actions. That responsibility would fall upon my mate-”

“And you think Moriarty won’t have Abigail killed?! Don’t be naive Sherlock, he would-”

“I’m sure I could convince him,” the Prince interrupts once more. “He wants me badly enough to agree to some of my conditions. Of course he’ll use Abigail to control me, but he won’t- he won’t kill her. He’d know I’d kill myself if he did.”

Mycroft closes his eyes, feeling tired. “Sherlock-”

“He wants _me_ , Mycroft. Not my title, not the power. **_Me_ **.” Sherlock stops pacing, running a hand through his messy curls. “It might be our only option.”

It can’t be. There must be- “I can’t let you do this,” Mycroft says, his tone defeated. “I can’t- I can’t.”

“It would put me out of the game,” Sherlock says reasonably and just when did he become the reasonable one? “It would put a stop to Magnussen’s plans of seizing the Crown peacefully. He would have to risk civil war, if he wants to be King so badly.”

“Or marry me,” Mycroft supplies, mostly absent minded.

Sherlock huffs. “He would never break you, Mycie. He knows that, he wouldn’t have come up with such an overcomplicated plan if he thought he could.” He crouches in front of his brother, grabbing his hands. “It would give us time. Magnussen doesn’t want to risk a civil war and without me to use as a pawn-”

Mycroft bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. He sees the logic in Sherlock’s plan but- “He’ll hurt you.”

The younger Prince licks his lips nervously, standing up once more. “Perhaps. But Abigail would be safe and that’s what matters.” He looks away, a pained expression on his face. “And it would be for the greater good, wouldn’t it?”

Mycroft snorts. “Since when do you care about the greater good?” he asks, not unkindly. He’s trying to unload the heavy feeling that has settled on his chest, but his brother being all self sacrificing isn’t helping.

Sherlock shrugs. “Isn’t that my duty?”

The Crown Prince makes a distressed sound, acknowledging his brother’s words. “I’ll try to think of something else,” he says resignedly, already knowing it won’t be of much use. “How long-?”

“A week, more or less,” Sherlock replies evenly, not looking at him. “That’s the standard waiting time, isn’t it?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, nodding. “I’ll bid you goodnight, then.”

His brother nods, still not meeting his eyes and he seems on the verge of saying something else, but apparently thinks better of it and instead nods once more, before exiting the room. Once alone, Mycroft leans back on his seat, locking his fingers beneath his chin, trying to gather his thoughts.

He doesn’t like this plan. Not one bit.

But what else can they do?

* * *

 

“If I may say so, it seems to me that you’re overlooking a very obvious solution,” Anthea tells him calmly, startling him a bit. It’s well past midnight and his guard is supposed to be at her own rooms, but instead she’s calmly standing in front of his chair, her expression somewhere between concerned and impassive.

“I’m sorry?” he asks, staring intently at her. Since his brother left, he hasn’t moved from his seat, nor has he spoken to anyone else and yet-

The female shrugs. “It’s a little predictable, honestly. Prince Sherlock accepting His Grace’s offer would put him out of the game, assuming of course Lord Magnussen doesn’t out his liaison before the marriage actually takes place, or that His Grace decides it doesn’t matter to him that his Royal Highness isn’t untouched, but well... It would be a little naive to assume Lord Magnussen hasn’t planned for such eventuality, especially since it is, as I’ve pointed out, a bit predictable.”

It takes Mycroft’s tired mind a few seconds to completely process the meaning of his guard’s monologue and then his expression falls. “You don’t think it would work?”

Anthea bites her lip, thoughtful. “Maybe. But as I said, it’s likely that Lord Magnussen has a back up plan for such thing and I don’t think he’s above murdering His Grace.”

Mycroft considers that. It would end one of his problems, at the very least, but it would leave him with the greatest one. So, all in all, not a very desirable option. “You said we’re missing the _obvious solution_.”

The Alpha smirks at that. “You, of course. Specifically, you mating someone you choose.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “And how exactly-?”

“If you married and had a child, that child would became Heir. Which would put Prince Sherlock out of the succession line and even if you died, your Alpha would be named Regent, at least until your son or daughter was old enough to rule themselves.”

“Yes, but who exactly do you propose I mate?” Mycroft demands, his tone disdainful. “All things considered, this might be the worst time ever for me to make that decision-”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, your Royal Highness, but it would be my honor to mate you.”

Mycroft freezes at that. Anthea’s tone is completely dispassionate, like she’s just naming a chore and not... not... “What?!”

She sighs, standing up a bit straighter, but nothing else betraying any sort of emotion on her. “I’ll never inherit my father’s title, but I’m a noble’s daughter. Their Majesties would never agree to let me court you, but if we were to mate-”

“They wouldn’t be able to challenge your claim,” Mycroft says, Anthea’s plan making perfect sense. “Because you actually have noble’s blood.” He chuckles, humorlessly. She’s right, of course: had John and Sherlock tried that, John would have been judged for high treason, because he was a commoner, but in this particular case-

God, this is messed up.

The female stands very still, waiting for his response. “Why would you do that, though?” he asks, staring at her, trying to read her hidden motives. “You have no actual interest in power or politics; if you did you wouldn’t have chosen your current occupation. You don’t actually want me, because I happen to know you have your eye on a pretty Omega scribe.” Anthea blushes at that, but doesn’t comment. “So why, pray tell, would you offer such thing?”

For a beat, Anthea seems to hesitate and then she seems to deflate, looking at him directly in the eye. “Because it would be for the greater good.”

Yes, she’s idealistic like that. Of course she would do such thing for the ‘greater good’. Mycroft sighs, wondering if she really understands the implications of her offer: if they do this, they’ll be tied to each other for the rest of their lives. Biologically, they’ll be incapable of taking another lover (well, unless said lover was a Beta and no, Mycroft isn’t going to even contemplate that) because their scents would be forever changed to just affect their Mate, making them utterly repulsive to other Alphas or Omegas. Of course among the nobility Alphas usually overlook such thing and take lovers anyway, since most of them don’t particularly care for what Omegas might want to begin with, but-

“If we do this, there’s no turning back,” he tells her very seriously, willing her to understand just exactly what she’s getting into. “You would be mine and I would be yours and there could never, ever be someone else. I don’t... I’m not interested in mating. I’ll never be a true Mate to you; you might share my bed and my Heats and sire my children but other than that... I can’t offer anything else to you.”

Anthea observes him for a beat, before nodding. “I could live with that,” she says, her tone completely collected. “Could you?”

He trusts Anthea. He knows she won’t try to control him or betray him and all things considered, that’s really all he could have expected from a Mate. “I could.”

She stares at him intently, like she’s trying to read into his very soul and Mycroft forces himself to keep his face perfectly blank. He knows what she’s thinking, but he’s very carefully avoiding thinking on the subject.

After all, he made his decision long ago. He pushed Gregory out of his life and he intends to stand by that.

“How long do we have, then?” she asks him after a while and Mycroft bites his lip.

“Three weeks,” he replies, thinking of his approaching Heat, feeling suddenly nervous. Still, he knows he’ll go through with this; it’ll keep his brother protected (for now) and it’ll give them time to figure something else.

It’s not a perfect plan, not by far. There are still a thousand ways in which things could go wrong, a million scenarios that aren’t covered by their little scheme. But it’s better than letting Moriarty get his pawns on his baby brother and for now, that’s enough.

* * *

 

“That’s a ridiculous plan,”, Sherlock informs him, when he tells him about his late night conversation with Anthea. Mycroft sighs, tired.

“It’s not perfect, I’ll admit that much-”

“It would only work if you get pregnant right away. And even if you do… there’s no saying what Magnussen would be willing to do to ensure I stay on the succession line,” his brother argues darkly. “Why should we both be miserable? There’s no point-”

“It’s a long shot,” Mycroft interrupts. “And you’re right, it might not work, but it would buy us some time.”

Sherlock bites his lip, non too gently. “Are you sure? It’s... it’s a very long shot.” He looks at his daughter, who is sleeping on Molly’s lap while the female reads a book, not paying any mind to the conversation going on so close to her. “And it still leaves Abigail in a precarious situation.”

“If you’re not on the line for the throne, you and Abigail are of no use to Lord Magnussen,” Mycroft says, with a conviction he doesn’t really feel. “As I said, if nothing else… it would buy us time.”

Sherlock nods finally, although he still looks unconvinced. “Alright. Let’s- let’s try that.”

All they can do now is pray that it works.

* * *

 

Mating Heats usually lead to pregnancy, because of the hormonal imbalance that the mating bite produces. Still, there’s no absolute way to guarantee a pregnancy and that’s right now their biggest concern.

Mother and Father will be livid when they find out he has mated, but the promise of a child will affiance his position as Heir, having provided the Crown with a new generation. Of course he might not end up pregnant, but well…if nothing else it’ll push back the conspirator’s plan for four months.

Mycroft paces around his room, wondering not for the first time if he really wants to do this. The honest answer is ‘no’, of course, so the real question is whether he can do it or not. A part of him is pretty resigned, having always known it would come to this. If anything, that part says, it’s better this way, because at least he’s calling the shots.

However, another part of him, the one who despite everything is still a hopeless romantic and that’s still pining pathetically after a certain Beta guard…

He sits down, forcing himself to stay still for a little while. If he goes through with this, there’s no turning back for him. He wouldn’t begrudge Anthea getting a lover at some point in the future (if she can manage the whole biological impediment, naturally), but he himself could never do that. He wouldn’t do that to Gregory, he couldn’t possibly ask that much of him. To be something other than his one and only… it’s just not fair.

He realizes now that, until this point, he was somewhat still expecting to find a way to be with the man he loves. Which is completely ridiculous, certainly, but-

No matter. He’s doing this, he has to do this. For his brother’s sake, for the Kingdom’s wellbeing-

The door opens and a couple of maids step in, bringing with them the ropes used to tie him to the bed. He takes a deep breath and nods to himself, trying to reassure himself everything will be fine.

He undresses calmly, pleased to note that despite his nervousness he’s not shaking. It wouldn’t do to alert anyone that something is not quite right with him. So he stoically goes to lie down on bed, as he does every four months and allows the maids to tie him up. He closes his eyes, willing his mind to go blank and focuses on just keep on breathing.

Finally the maids finish up, they bow once and exit the room, leaving the Prince alone with his thoughts.

And so he waits. Heat will start at some point in the wee hours of the morning and Anthea should be here a little after midnight and if everything goes according to plan, by this time tomorrow night he’ll be mated.

It’s a most daunting prospect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> I decided to tag other pairings in “additional tags” because well, I do intend for Mystrade and Johnlock to be endgame. In the meantime however… well, everything is game. And I do ship a lot of things, so… sorry about that?  
> But I do worry if I’m making sense. It sort of does, in my head, but I’m worried I’m not writing it in a believable manner so… let me know what you thought?  
> Also, I wrote a companion piece for the previous chapter, called “foolish imaginations” that goes from John’s POV. I’ll be writing a companion piece for the few following chapters, going from Sherlock’s POV, but not sure when I’ll be posting it...  
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


	12. Pointless hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are unavoidable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I would write a companion piece for chapter 11, but I sorta figured it worked better if I waited a little… you’ll see why.  
> Mind the tags darlings, this is about to go into a very grey area. I’ll try to handle it accordingly and respectfully and I hope it won’t be too upsetting, but… well, better safe than sorry.  
> Enjoy a new chapter?

Mycroft wakes up feeling tired and sore. With a groan, he tries to turn around and realizes he can’t, which promptly leads him to realize he’s tied up. There’s something wrong with that, but his mind feels fuzzy and so it takes him embarrassingly long to figure out what’s wrong with this scenario.

Where’s Anthea? He shouldn’t be tied up anymore, his Mate should be here with him now. Unless of course she was found out before-

He looks around the room, looking for some sign of what could possibly have gone wrong, but everything is as it always is. The entrance to the hidden passage remains perfectly concealed, not sight of a fight or any other type of commotion having taken place. Confused, he frowns, his mind furiously trying to come up with a logical solution.

The door opens and, as usual, a couple of maids come in to untie him. If Anthea had been discovered, something in the maids demeanor would suggest it, but they behave as they always do. Mycroft stays very still, his mind on overdrive, nothing making much sense. Nothing is going on as it’s supposed to, nothing seems to have changed at all. He’s worried about Anthea, because he knows something must have happened, but what?

Well, he’ll have to find out, won’t he?

* * *

 

It’s nerve wracking, going through his usual motions on days like these. He takes a bath, careful to take as long as he normally does and then dresses calmly, forcing himself not to dash out of the room and go demanding explanations as soon as he’s ready. Instead he walks towards the dinning room, his pace measured and his face completely blank of emotion.

As he expected, his parents are not at the dining room, seeing it’s past their usual breakfast time. There are, however, two unexpected guests that make Mycroft immediately tense up. “Your Grace,” he greets Duke Moriarty politely and the man offers him an amused smile.  “Lord Magnussen,” he says, turning to the other visitor. “What a lovely surprise.”

Both men smirk at him, like a pair of predators closing up on their prey. Mycroft smiles tightly and takes a seat at his usual place at the table, trying to keep his discomfort from showing.

“You’ve been very naughty, your Royal Highness,” Moriarty says, almost off handedly. “Their Majesties would be most disappointed.”

“Indeed,” Magnussen agrees, leaning back on his seat. “Practically offering yourself on a silver platter to a girl that is just barely above a regular peasant. Most naughty, indeed. I must say, I expected better from you, my Prince.”

Mycroft holds their stare evenly, even if there’s an unpleasant shiver running down his spine and he can feel his panic rising. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The two Alphas smile nastily at him and Mycroft is hard pressed not to recoil. “Of course you don’t,” the Duke says lazily. “It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway. I doubt you’ll be seeing Lady Anthea any time soon.”

Mycroft’s blood runs cold, but he stays outwardly collected, just arching an eyebrow curiously. Moriarty laughs loudly at that and Magnussen’s smirk widens. “You’ll be seeing plenty of us, though,” the Earl informs him very seriously, his nasty smile still firmly in place. “And you’ll behave, won’t you? We wouldn’t want anyone else to get hurt, huh?”

The Prince bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood. Magnussen chuckles darkly and stands up, closely followed by Moriarty, who looks quite smug himself. “I’m glad we understand each other. Have a nice day, your Royal Highness.”

And so they leave. Mycroft closes his eyes, feeling overwhelmed with guilt and worry.

What is he going to do now?

* * *

 

Although his appetite is gone, he forces himself to eat something. His body needs substance after going through Heat, but he finds hard to swallow. He’s dying to know what exactly happened to his guard; judging by the other men’s words she’s not dead, but that’s not an entirely comforting thought. There’s plenty of damage that can be made without actually killing someone.

He leaves the dining room shortly after, deciding to go looking for his brother. He’s certain that Sherlock will be able to tell him what happened, even if he’s not entirely sure he wants to know.

His brother’s room, however, is empty. Frustration quickly rising, he keeps on looking without any luck, until he passes a small alcove and the sound of voices quickly get his attention.

He would recognize Gregory’s voice anywhere and he also recognizes his interlocutor. Curious, despite it all, he peeks into the alcove to find his ex guard snugly pressed to Molly Hooper, talking in hushed tones. They’re both observing something through a small window that’s mostly to let some clean air in and not to actually gaze through it and although that would explain their closeness, Mycroft can’t help thinking there’s something else. Still, he forces his jealousy down and clears his throat, dragging their attention to him.

Molly blushes right away, her face turning almost the same shade of her hair. Gregory doesn’t react in any telling way, simply stares evenly at the Prince. “Have you seen my brother?” he asks, proud that his voice doesn’t shake and Molly and Gregory exchange a look, before moving a bit to allow Mycroft to peer through the window too.

With a sudden sense of dread, the Prince approaches the window and looks out, his heart beating a little too quickly. Outside, he can see his brother talking to Duke Moriarty. Sherlock stands very still, obviously wary, but Moriarty seems completely at ease. In fact, the Duke is smiling charmingly as he waits for the Prince to say something.

After what feels like a lifetime, but can only be a few seconds, Mycroft sees his brother nodding once, before slowly tilting his head, offering his neck to the other man. Moriarty beams manically at that, hurrying to step closer and pressing a quick kiss to Sherlock’s neck, a promise of what it’s to come.

Mycroft turns around, suddenly feeling weak. Gregory’s hand steadies him before his legs give up and so he somehow manages to remain upright, but just barely. His mind has gone completely blank, panic threatening to drown him.

So this is it. They’re officially doomed now.

He has failed his brother once more.

* * *

 

Gregory drags him back into his bedroom, where he collapses on a chair. The guard eyes him worriedly, but doesn’t comment and instead busies himself with calling for some tea. A part of him wants to ask for wine instead, but he figures getting drunk might not be the wisest course of action right now.

“Where’s Abigail?” he asks, once the maid has come with the tea and left again. Gregory observes him for a beat, before taking a seat in front of him and grabbing a cup for himself.

“Molly’s room. She was asleep when we heard Sherlock passing and well… we decided to keep an eye on him.”

All things considered, right now keeping an eye on Abigail should be top priority. Judging by the guard’s look, he doesn’t need to say that outloud. So instead he decides to ask the next more pressing question, “what happened to Anthea?”

Gregory bites his lip, anxious. “We’re not sure. She was found near the river, severely hurt. Dr. Stanford’s guess is that someone attacked her, dropped her in the river thinking her dead and well… it was a close call, but she’s alive.”

Mycroft groans, dropping his head between his arms. Gregory pats his shoulder awkwardly and the touch really shouldn’t be half as comforting as it is but-

God, how can he even be thinking about that? His brother is engaged to a madman, Magnussen and Moriarty are now working together, his personal guard has been seriously hurt for trying to help and-

This is so messed up.

“We need to reinforce your security,” Gregory is saying, completely oblivious to the Prince’s guilty thoughts. “Without a personal guard looking out for you, you’re an easier target and considering-”

“I’m dead, either way,” Mycroft interrupts darkly. “It’s Sherlock we should focus on.”

The Beta bites his lip, looking troubled. “There’s nothing we can actually do for him, your Royal Highness. The engagement could last a year of course, but I sincerely doubt they’ll be waiting that long. And once the Prince is married...”

He will no longer be the King’s (and that’s to say, Mycroft’s) responsibility. “God, there must be something... there must be something I can do.”

The other male observes him in silence, looking as tired and defeated as the Crown Prince feels. Should he have let Sherlock accept Moriarty’s offer before? That way at least the Duke wouldn’t be working with Magnussen, would he? At least that way-

Well, no use on thinking of ‘what ifs’.

“This is it, then,” he whispers, resigned. “We’ve been beaten.”

Gregory doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t need to.

* * *

 

 

As expected, the King is beyond thrilled about the engagement. The Queen seems a bit more reserved, but she also congratulates her son and agrees with the King that a celebration is in order. A hasty engagement banquet is ordered and Mycroft watches his brother sitting next to his fiancé, looking somewhere between resigned and pained.

That night he’s not surprised at all to wake up to the feeling of someone crawling into his bed. Sherlock has even brought Abigail with him and the three of them somehow manage to fit in the bed, despite the child’s protestations at almost being smothered by the two men.

Mycroft holds Sherlock and Sherlock holds Abigail and the three of them fall into a fitful sleep, full of nightmares and dark promises for the future.

* * *

 

“It couldn’t have worked out more perfectly,” Sherlock tells him at some point in the wee hours of the morning, his back at him. “I gave them the perfect ammunition.”

“It’s not your fault,” the older Prince whispers, squeezing him tighter. “Not your fault.”

“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is,” his brother argues darkly. “The end result is the same.”

Mycroft doesn’t answer.

There’s nothing he can say to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know! It’s super short, but we got a few things cleared out, didn’t we?  
> Now, I’ve tagged this with “consent issues”. The things is, considering Sherlock is being pretty much blackmailed into agreeing to the marriage, there’s really no consent to be given. But, seeing the main fic goes from Mycroft’s POV I won’t go too deep into it HERE. However, the issue does affect the way the story goes as well as the way characters react and I’ll be dwelling into it in the companion pieces (seeing they run from Sherlock’s POV). I’ll be tagging and warning accordingly, but heads up to that.  
> Thanks for reading and commenting, let me know what you thought?


	13. Pointless vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here’s the new update!  
> Before we start- considering the circumstances of the marriage, I should warn once more for consent issues. Nothing explicit per se, but still… be warned!  
> Also, rest assured this will end up in Johnlock. Just… some detours and bumps along the way.  
> Enjoy?

Watching the wedding preparations must be the most nerve wracking thing that Mycroft has ever been forced to endure. He avoids offering his opinion, unless directly asked, because half of the time he feels like screaming. How Sherlock manages is beyond him and some dark, twisted part of himself is terribly happy it’s not him the one marrying.

It’s an horrid thought, because he should have stopped this from happening, no matter what and yet-

He helps Mother supervise the banquet preparations and sort through wedding invitations and chose fabrics and flowers and what not and tries very hard not to let the guilt drown him, but it’s a lost battle. He watches his brother trying on wedding gowns and even worse, wedding night ensembles and fights hard to keep himself from being sick.

Sherlock approaches the whole ordeal with calm resignation and complete indifference. He lets Mother make any choices that need to be made and simply nods to whatever he’s asked. He’s mostly a dead man walking nowadays and Mycroft desperately tries to come up with a last minute solution to their dilemma.

Sadly, it seems, there’s no such thing.

* * *

 

The day of the wedding is scheduled far too soon. Short engagements aren’t completely unheard of, but Mycroft hadn’t thought his parents would agree to such a rushed wedding. But the King seems dead set on marrying his youngest son quickly, so he might not change his mind.

Not that Sherlock can actually change his mind seeing what is at stake, but Father doesn’t know that, does he?

Marriages (at least among the nobility) are usually scheduled to match Heats. Supposedly, a mating bite during Heat makes the bond stronger than one made out of it, but in reality, it’s mostly a way to avoid the Omega’s attempts to escape an unwanted bond. Since they’re pretty much out of sorts during Heat, resistance is impossible, which in turns just makes the whole ordeal much more twisted and potentially traumatic for the Omega.

Of course nowadays noble Omegas get the illusion of having chosen their mates, but it’s exactly that: an illusion. They’re not free to marry out of love, nor do they get the choice of not mating at all.

And so Sherlock’s engagement is meant to last only 2 months. Mycroft tries to talk his parents into postponing it for another 4 months, but Father flat out refuses and Mother heavily implies that she shares her husband’s view on the need of making sure the marriage happens as soon as possible and so the Crown Prince is left with very little time to try to figure out an escape plan.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and tells him it’s pointless, sounding far too resigned. Mycroft chooses not to get into a fight with him, unwilling to argue with his brother when he already has so much on his plate.

Two months isn’t nearly enough time, but he’ll have to make do.

He’s not failing his brother, no way in hell.

* * *

 

A week before the actual wedding, guests start arriving for the pre-wedding celebrations. Mycroft’s nerves are officially fried by then, since he’s mostly out of time. Sherlock just shakes his head whenever he tries to approach him with a new idea to stop this madness and Mycroft knows that his brother is right: there’s no actual escape to this.

Still, he can’t resign himself. Not yet anyway.

Things are looking pretty grim, but Sherlock is holding himself together admirably and Mycroft can’t help to be quite proud of him. Even if he wishes things were different, he’s happy to note his brother hasn’t let misery consume him. Resignation is… well, it’s not a good thing, but if it helps him cope…

But that changes that night during dinner, when a messenger arrives with an urgent letter for Lord Magnussen. Ever since the marriage announcement, the Earl has been a fixed presence in the Castle and so Mycroft has learned to mostly ignore him. Right now, however-

“Oh, such horrible news,” the Earl comments after reading the letter, his tone suggesting he doesn’t find the news surprising, nor disturbing. It immediately puts Mycroft on edge and he wonders, not for the first time, how Father manages to miss just how dodgy the man is.

“What is it, Charles?” the King asks almost off handedly, not looking particularly concerned. Mycroft clenches his jaw, forcing himself not to snap at his father’s careless tone.

“There was an attack on the Northern Border,” the Earl replies evenly and both Mycroft and Sherlock tense. Magnussen throws a quick smirk in their direction, before turning to the King with fake concern. “A particularly vicious one. Explosives at the healings tents… really, such a barbaric thing!”

The King hums, looking slightly more worried now. “Many deaths?”

“The entirety of the medical team,” Magnussen says and Sherlock gasps audibly. “Along with Major Sholto. He was the target, apparently, since he was recovering from a rather nasty sickness-”

Mycroft finds himself out of breath. He clenches and unclenches his fists, trying to calm down. What is Magnussen playing at? He had thought- it just doesn’t make sense-

“I suppose we’ll need to send more doctors,” the King comments, thoughtful. “We shall-”

The sound of someone abruptly standing up interrupts him. Mycroft turns to look at his brother, who has stood up and looks in the verge of saying something.

Oh. The entirety of the medical team. That means-

Oh.

In the end, the younger Prince doesn’t say a word, simply abandons the room after throwing a glare in the King’s direction. Father frowns, but doesn’t say anything and for that Mycroft is eternally thankful. The last thing they need right now is Sherlock getting into another fight with their parents.

He considers his options and in the end, he decides that going after Sherlock couldn’t possibly hurt. “Excuse me,” the Crown Prince says, standing up. “I need to check on my brother.”

He catches sight of Magnussen’s pleased and cruel smirk and of Moriarty’s part angry, part frustrated, part actually concerned frown as he hurries out of the room.

God, this mess just keeps getting bigger and bigger.

* * *

 

Sherlock isn’t in his room, but Mycroft has a pretty good idea of where he’ll find him. Anthea and Gregory standing outside Molly’s room just help him confirm his suspicions and so he sighs, leaning against the wall with the two guards, figuring he ought to give his brother some time to process what has just happened.

He looks at Anthea, biting his lip gently. The female looks better, but she’s nowhere near completely recovered. However, she’s stubborn as a mule and after finding out about the recent developments, she had insisted on going back to her duties. Mycroft had tried arguing, but she had smartly pointed out that he didn’t have any other guards he would be willing to trust right now with his secrets.

Still, he doesn’t like the fact that she keeps over exhausting herself.

He turns to Gregory then, the usual wave of longing almost overwhelming him. It’s so much worse than before they went to the Palace and he finds himself often wondering why he thought he would be able to keep his emotions under control.

Nothing for it, of course. What’s done is done. However-

The door opens and Molly slips out, a look of utter misery on her face. She turns to Mycroft, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I think it would be for the best to leave him alone for a while. He’s... he’s been deeply affected.”

That doesn’t bode well for the future and with the wedding scheduled in a few days… “Is he-?”

“I think he’ll be fine,” Molly interrupts him, running a hand through her hair. “He just needs some space right now.”

Mycroft sighs, rubbing his temples tiredly. The news couldn’t be any more ill timed, really: they always knew that John Watson’s death was inevitable and yet- “He’s staying here?” he asks, deciding to focus on the things he has some degree of control over; ensuring his brother’s whereabouts aren’t discovered being one of them.

Molly nods, with a little shrug. “I suppose. I- I don’t mind.”

“I could always find you other rooms for the night,” the Prince offers, figuring that if she stays she’ll end up spending a restless night. “I’m sure-”

He notices then the look the female Alpha and Gregory are sharing and promptly shuts up. Oh. That’s- that’s-

He closes his eyes, willing himself to get his jealousy under control. Now is really not the time for this nonsense; his brother needs him and he shouldn’t allow himself to get distracted, no matter how much his heart is aching.

He knew Gregory would eventually move on. Witnessing it however-

It’s no matter. He doesn’t have time for this. “Well, I guess that’s sorted,” he says, perhaps a tad bitterly, but nobody seems to notice (or they all pretend not to, at least). “Anthea, keep guard tonight and inform me if anything happens,” he instructs his guard and the woman nods, a spark of amusement in her eyes that makes Mycroft glare. “Good night everyone.”

He turns around and hurries to his own rooms, careful to measure his steps so it doesn’t look like he’s running away. He can hear the guards and Molly discussing something in hushed whispers, but he doesn’t stop. He has many things to figure out and he won’t allow himself to lose his focus.

No matter what.

* * *

 

When Sherlock enters the dining room the next day, Mycroft is beyond surprised by how collected he looks. Something has changed though, because gone is his quiet resignation. The older Prince can’t exactly pin point the change, but something in his brother seems to speak of a spark of resistance, of defiance. Like he’s no longer resigned to his fate, like he wants to fight.

He can’t honestly say if that’s a good or a bad thing.

* * *

 

“Sherlock-”

“We’ve lost a fight,” his brother tells him quietly that night, while they stand at the garden, carefully hidden from prying eyes, neither trusting the privacy of their rooms anymore. “But we won’t lost the war.”

Mycroft nods. It’ll be a difficult promise to keep.

Good thing he has always liked a challenge.

* * *

 

The morning of the wedding, Mycroft runs into his future brother-in-law on his way to his brother’s chambers. The Duke smirks at him and the Prince is high pressed not to say something particularly nasty to him. Instead he nods politely in greeting, attempting to slide past the man without exchanging any actual pleasantries.

Of course it doesn’t work out like that.

“And so the curtain raises. The show is about to begin, but the question is, are you ready for for it, your Royal Highness?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath and forces himself to stay calm and not snarl at the Duke. “I beg your pardon?”

Moriarty smirks some more, tilting his head curiously. “Surely you realize what comes next, don’t you?” he asks almost patronizingly and Mycroft takes yet another deep breath. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll keep an eye on your brother. And on his little bastard, I suppose.”

Mycroft finds himself overcome with anger and next thing he knows he has pushed the Duke against the wall, his arm pressed against his throat. It’s been a couple of hellish months, so he should be excused for his lapse of judgement. Moriarty however doesn’t look particularly worried, mostly just amused. “If you dare to hurt my brother...” he whispers darkly and the Duke’s eyes flash with mirth.

“What will you do?” the Alpha asks, a smug smirk on his lips. “What exactly do you think you can do?” Moriarty might be shorter and a little on the skinny side, but he’s still an Alpha and manages to push Mycroft off, quickly reverting their positions. “You’re a dead man walking, your Highness, but it could still be worse. If Lord Magnussen was to tell your father about your… dalliance, you would find your pet guard tortured and dead before you’re exiled. Do you really want to risk that?”

Mycroft snarls then, attempting to fight the man off him and the Duke lets go, smirking cruelly. “If you think I would rather save my own skin than see my brother safe-”

“No, certainly,” Moriarty says calmly, running a hand through his suit jacket, straightening it, seemingly unperturbed by their little exchange. “But it’s not just your life, is it? Take my advice, your Highness: let this happen. That way, the only dead body we’ll have will be yours.”

Mycroft glares and the other man just offers him another smirk before walking away. The Prince closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. “Oh, and rest assured I’ll keep your brother and niece safe,” the Duke tells him, turning around, entirely too loud, evidently not caring if they’re overheard. “You have my word.” He winks then and promptly resumes his walk.

Mycroft sighs, leaning against the wall, feeling tired beyond words. The Duke is right, of course, things could be so much worse.

It doesn’t mean he should feel grateful, though.

* * *

 

“You got into a fight?” Sherlock demands the minute he steps into his rooms. “What were you thinking?!” he exclaims, standing up and pushing the maids fussing with his hair away from him. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Mycroft sighs and turns to the maids, signaling for them to step out. The females bow and hurry to obey, leaving the Princes on their own. Sherlock glares at him for a couple of seconds before huffing and plopping on his chair in front of the mirror.

The older Prince sighs once more, coming to stand directly behind his brother. Wordlessly, he picks up a comb and carries on with what the maids were doing. Sherlock huffs again, but quickly relaxes as his brother runs his fingers through his hair.

For a while, neither of them speak, just taking comfort on their mutual presence. “I’ll be fine,” Sherlock whispers, sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself than to convince Mycroft. His brother closes his eyes, forcing himself to reign his emotions in.

“I know,” he whispers, leaning down to press a kiss against the younger’s curls. “I know.”

God, there’s no hope for them.

* * *

 

Sherlock looks rather fetching in his white gown, even if it’s slightly too _flashy_ for him. Obviously Mother’s choice, judging by all the tulle and lace involved. It might look ghastly on someone else, but the Prince walks down the aisle with his usual grace, looking quite regal.

Mycroft finds himself short of breath as he watches his brother exchange vows and has to stop himself from yelling that he opposes to the whole ordeal. He bites his lip down hard, managing to draw blood and Mother glares at him, but luckily Father doesn’t seem to notice.

He keeps feeling he could have done so much more.

Couldn’t he?

* * *

 

“Nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Some drunk guests, some Alphas posturing and engaging in brawls to catch some Omega’s attention, some extremely public displays of affection... you know, the usual things during a wedding.”

Mycroft makes a face, but doesn’t argue. He supposes that that does qualify as the ‘usual’. He overlooks the dance floor from his corner, Gregory at his side looking as inconsequential as ever.

That might be the man biggest asset: to be completely invisible when needed.

“You didn’t expect anything to happen tonight, did you?” the guard asks him, his eyes scanning the room every so often. Mycroft takes a deep breath and proceeds to drown another glass of champagne. Gregory frowns, but doesn’t comment.

“No,” he answers truthfully. “If I was going to murder the Crown Prince, I wouldn’t do it on his brother’s wedding celebration.”

The other male nods. “We’ll be ready when it happens,” he assures him, although Mycroft can tell he’s not as confident as he’s attempting to sound. “Nobody is murdering you. Not on my watch.”

Mycroft can’t help the slight ironic smile that comes to his lips. He realizes he’s a little drunk and he wonders if he can blame the drink for what he’s about to ask. “What’s your relationship with Ms. Hooper?”

Gregory spares a quick look in his direction, before going back to scanning the room. “I’ll better go. The Queen is coming this way and she might question what I’m doing with you, if I’m no longer your personal guard.”

“My personal guard is officially off-duty,” the Prince argues, grabbing him by the wrist. The motion doesn’t go unseen by the Queen, but she simply arches an eyebrow before heading elsewhere to greet some other guests. “And besides, Sherlock is supposed to no longer be any of your concern, so it’s just logical-”

“Am I back to my old job, then?”

Mycroft huffs. “Who else am I going to trust?” they stare at each other for what feels like a lifetime and then Gregory finally looks away, biting his lip gently.

“I shall try to be worthy of your trust, then.”

“Gregory, I-” the Prince shakes his head, chiding himself for allowing all this sentiment. There are more pressing matters to take care of, anyway. “Nevermind. Just- Forget what I said. I’m just- I might have drunk more than I should.”

The guard smirks briefly, before turning his attention back to the dance floor. “Well, you certainly look the part,” he says, his lips curving on a disdainful smile.

“Huh?”

“The part of the jealous older brother.”

Mycroft huffs, unamused. “I certainly could do with never going through this whole charade.” He stares at the other man for a long while, gathering his courage, knowing he really shouldn’t say what he’s about to say. “Not with someone I don’t love, in any case.”

“And yet you were about to mate two months ago,” Gregory tells him coldly, taking a step away. “Excuse me, your Royal Highness, but I should go back to my duties.” And with that he slips away, meddling with the crowd, and yet completely unnoticed.

Mycroft closes his eyes and sighs. He really is more drunk than he thought.

He catches sight of the “happy” couple leaving and his heart promptly sinks to his feet, sobering him up quickly. God, his whole life is a mess and he has lost all semblance of control over it he ever had.

What is he supposed to do now?

* * *

 

Tradition dictates that before the newlyweds retire for the evening (and the following Heat), the Omega spends a few minutes being ‘educated’ on the ways of ‘love’ by, typically, the older Omega sibling or, if there’s none, the Omega parent.

It’s an incredibly ridiculous notion, because a few minutes is really not enough time to prepare anyone for anything, but tradition holds and so Mycroft stands outside his brother’s chambers, waiting for Mother to come out.

He’s planning to slip in as soon as she does, even if supposedly he has no ‘wisdom’ to impart on his younger sibling. And he supposes he really doesn’t, since he has never been with an Alpha, but he also believes that even if he had, there was nothing he could tell Sherlock that would make the events of this night any more… bearable.

God, he doesn’t even know what Sherlock thinks about this particular _duty._ It’s an Omega’s duty and (arguably) their honor to please their Alphas but seeing that his brother didn’t chose this… Sherlock certainly seems to have to come to terms with the whole marriage-thing, but on this particular matter…

Mycroft really doesn’t know what to think.

The door opens and Mother steps out. She seems surprised at the Prince’s presence for a beat, but then she just shakes her head somewhat fondly and steps to the side to allow him to pass.

The Queen offers him one last smile before closing the door behind him and leaving him alone with his brother. Sherlock arches an eyebrow questioningly and Mycroft hurries to ignore what he’s wearing, his stomach turning unpleasantly. God, how is Sherlock so collected?

“I’ll be fine,” the younger Prince repeats for what seems like the hundredth time. “How many times do I have to say it before you start believing me?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft replies evenly, wanting to gather his brother in his arms, but knowing he will break down if he does and now it’s really not the time for that. He has no right to get overly emotional about his brother’s sacrifice, no right at all. “How many times before you start believing it?”

Sherlock huffs, but doesn’t argue. They share a somewhat shaky smile and promptly look away, both feeling too raw to really talk to each other and yet- “I don’t think we’ll get the chance to talk much before... before I leave to my new _home._ I just... I just want you to know that I... I do believe you did everything you could to protect me.” Mycroft wants to interrupt, because he didn’t. He should have done so much more- “Stop it, brother. You did. But I got us into this mess and I will-”

“You didn’t,” Mycroft interrupts darkly then, stepping closer to the younger male. “ Don’t you even dare to think it.”

Sherlock licks his lips nervously, not quite meeting his eyes. “If I hadn’t had Abigail-”

“Don’t,” the Crown Prince interrupts once more, this time giving into his impulses and pulling his brother into a hug. “You didn’t- This isn’t your fault, Sherlock. Don’t ever think that.”

Sherlock nods, wrapping his arms around Mycroft and squeezing him tight. For a while, neither of them speak, words are useless right now. “Would you care to hear Mother’s advice?” the younger one asks almost playfully, but there’s something dark and foreboding in his tone that Mycroft doesn’t like.

“Would I?”

“Keep your eyes closed and your mind blank. You might even enjoy it.”

“God,” Mycroft whispers, his stomach rolling once more. “Sherlock, I can’t let you-”

“It’s fine,” the Prince interrupts with a shrug. “It’s all fine. I do know what to expect, you know?” Mycroft very much doubts that, because he sincerely doubts this time will be anything like the first time, but well… he probably shouldn’t say that aloud.

He really doesn’t need to, because Sherlock seems to know it. The dark haired male offers him one last smile, before letting go of their hug and standing up tall and proud. “Don’t worry. I can do this.”

He knows he can.

But he shouldn’t need to.

* * *

 

Three days later, Mycroft hugs his brother once more before he leaves for his husband’s home. Sherlock looks physically fine and the older Prince dares to hope that maybe he’ll really be fine. Not happy, not even content, but… fine.

“You’ll keep an eye on Abigail, yes?” his brother whispers against his ear, still clinging to him, despite their parents unamused stares. “I can’t... please? Promise me.”

Mycroft wonders what good his promise is, considering just how badly things have worked out for them lately, but doesn’t say that aloud. Instead he holds his brother tight and nods once, pressing a quick kiss against Sherlock’s curls.

His brother lets out a shaky laugh that has no humor in it. “We’ll win this war, Mycroft. We’ll win it.”

The Crown Prince nods once more, before pulling away, well aware of the now curious stares from their parents. Duke Moriarty offers his hand to Sherlock, to help him climb into the carriage and then turns to offer one last smirk to his brother-in-law.

Mycroft glares, his heart heavy with regrets.

Things are completely out of his control and he absolutely loathes the feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> I feel I might have gone a little too quickly over the whole wedding ordeal (not to mention John’s “death”), but I’m going more in deep with that in the companion piece. As you might already know, [desperate measures](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6196279/chapters/14195191) chapters 1 and 2 are the companion works for chapters 11 and 12 and chapter 3 will be the companion piece for this one. I do think I’ll be writing the wedding night, because there are a couple of scenes I really want to write, but I believe that that will be chapter 4, so you can completely skip it if you feel it’s too much. However, I would strongly advice reading the first chapters, I feel it really helps to understand Sherlock's POV on the whole ordeal (or at least that was my intention)  
> If my mental sketch doesn’t change as I write, this story has 3 more chapters (at most) left to go. Don’t worry, I do have a plan and everything should be wrapped up nicely by then, so I can deliver the promised happy ending. I might end up writing yet more companion pieces that work as sort of epilogues, but we’ll see.  
> On another note, while _desperate measures_ runs from Sherlock’s POV, I feel we might be missing Greg’s POV. What do you guys think? With everything else going on I’m not completely certain it’s needed but well… I don’t know. I’m also toying with the idea of writing a companion piece running from our villains’ POVs but well… I’m really really uncertain about that.  
> Anyway, let me know what you think? Thanks for reading!


	14. Pointless survival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like death to bring people together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you’ve already read chapter 5 of desperate measures, you know what to expect. If not… well… I’m sorry? Kinda? I mean, you know by now how I love writing drama so…  
> Enjoy?

It doesn’t even take a month.

Not that he was expecting to live much longer, but he honestly thought they would wait at least a few months before attempting to murder him. He probably should also have imagined that the used method would be poisoning, since it was the more effective and less flashy method.

In retrospective, he should have been more prepared, but he really wasn’t.

Mycroft realizes something is wrong when he wakes up one morning and the whole world is blurry. He had been feeling slightly dizzy on the previous days, but he had assumed it had to do with how stressed he was. Since he was often worried about the state of affairs in the Kingdom, not to mention his recently married brother, he had imagined his headaches and nausea were perfectly normal.

This however...

He tries to drag himself out of bed when he realizes he’s about to throw up, but his limbs feel too heavy and he has very little control over them.

The blood in his vomit lets him know that this isn’t some nasty random sickness.

He’s been poisoned.

With a grunt, he tries to stand up. When his body fails to obey his mind’s commands, he figures he has no other choice but to call for help. His first try comes out flat, since his voice is raspy, like he hasn’t drunk anything in ages. He gulps, trying to get his throat working and calls for his guard once more.

A few seconds later Gregory storms into the room, looking quite disheveled. It seems he hasn’t been sleeping lately and a part of Mycroft aches at the thought, but his concern for the younger man is quickly pushed aside by a new wave of nausea.

The guard stares at him for a beat, apparently frozen in the spot and then quickly moves to his side, rubbing his back comfortingly, as the Prince continues to empty his stomach all over the floor. It’s embarrassing really, but his mind isn’t quite focused on that just yet.

Once he stops throwing up, Gregory hurries outside, calling for one of the guards on night watch duty. Mycroft can’t hear the whole exchange, but he assumes Gregory has asked for a doctor.

Not that it matters, of course.

But couldn’t they at least choose a less unpleasant way of murdering him?

* * *

 

It seems that Gregory has called for every physician at the Castle, who turn out to be Drs. Stamford, Sawyer and Molly Hooper. The later has brought Abigail along, since leaving the girl on her own would be most unwise given the current circumstances. However, Mycroft is not particularly thrilled at the idea of his niece seeing him like this; the poor girl has just lost her father (if only temporarily) and she really doesn’t need to witness the murder of her uncle.

Gregory seems to pick on that and so he takes the toddler from Molly, stepping outside the room for a bit. Mycroft feels instantly both worse and better, but forces himself to focus on the circumstances at hand. The doctors fuss over him, checking him over and arguing among them about the diagnose. Well, Dr. Stamford and Sawyer do, Molly knows as well as Mycroft what exactly is going on. However, neither shares that information with the other two physicians.

In the end, after agreeing on a treatment, the doctors leave to fetch their stuff, leaving the Prince on his own. Mycroft closes his eyes and wills himself to ignore the pain, feeling tired and defeated.

He wonders, not for the first time, if they’re going to lose the war after all.

* * *

 

Mother visits sometime during the day, although Mycroft can’t say for sure when. He sleeps most of the time and when he’s awake everything feels too surreal for him to be certain he’s not dreaming. The Queen seems worried, but the Prince can’t say for sure if that’s not only product of his fevered mind.

He just wants to be left alone.

Gregory slips into the room a couple of times, bringing food that Mycroft can’t even contemplate eating and water that the older male drinks greedily. He’s constantly shivering and he feels like a prisoner of his own body.

A most horrible sensation, to be honest.

* * *

 

At some point in the middle of the night, Mycroft wakes up to the feeling of someone running their fingers through his hair. He purrs happily, following the source of comfort when the hand pulls away. Gregory chuckles softly before resuming his motions, humming softly.

Despite the dire circumstances, Mycroft can’t help but to feel happy.

If he’s going to die… well, it’s not such a bad way to go, is it?

* * *

 

“When I die-” he whispers, his voice barely audible. Gregory shakes his head, but Mycroft places a hand over his arm, signaling for him to be quiet. The guard bites his lip, but listens in silence. “When I die, will you look after Abigail?”

“Of course,” the Beta promises softly, grabbing the Prince’s hand in his. “But you won’t die. You’ll be fine Mycroft; you’ll see.”

The Prince nods, even if he doesn’t think so. Still, he doesn’t really mind pretending, if only for his beloved’s sake.

He knew this moment would come. All in all… maybe it’s not as bad as he thought.

* * *

 

His mind feels like it’s slipping. He finds hard to concentrate or to remember things and isn’t that the most scary feeling in the world? His perception of reality might also be affected, but that’s a little harder to discern.

He can’t bring himself to care much, though.

“I love you,” he whispers when Gregory sits next to him on the bed to give him some water. “I love you so much. And I... I just want you to be happy. I wish you and Ms. Hooper all the happiness in the world.”

Gregory doesn’t respond and Mycroft can’t see him clearly enough to deduce what he’s thinking, his vision too blurry, but then younger male leans to press a soft kiss against his forehead and the Prince hums contently.

He could die like this. He really could.

* * *

 

“I’m dying."

Gregory doesn’t reply, just turning away and avoiding Mycroft’s eyes. The Prince has very few moments of being lucid nowadays and this is one of them, so he intends to use it wisely. He doubts he has much time left and he has matters to settle so he can die in peace. “Sherlock will move back into the Castle once I’m gone and he becomes Crown Prince. You’ll look after him, yes?”

The guard sighs. “Of course I will.”

They stay in silence for a while, Gregory running a wet rag over Mycroft’s feverish forehead. “I meant what I said the other time,” the older male whispers, his voice a little broken. “I do want you to be happy.”

Gregory sighs once more, stopping his motions. He stares at nothing in particular for the longest time and then turns to look at the Prince directly in the eyes. “I love you too, you daft git. I couldn’t stop, even if I tried to. Molly and I... we’re friends, very good friends but… it’s not like that.” He runs his fingers through the Prince’s hair, making him hum happily, “it couldn’t be like that when I’m still in love with you.”

Mycroft’s breath catches and he finds himself incapable of answering. There are a million things he wishes he could say, but his throat is refusing to work and tiredness is overwhelming him. Still-

He grabs the guard’s hand and squeezes it softly. Gregory smiles sadly, his eyes bright with tears and then leans down to press a chaste kiss against the Omega’s lips. Mycroft sighs, wanting another kiss, but feeling too weak to say or try to do anything more. “Sleep, love,” the guard whispers, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And Mycroft does.

* * *

 

He wakes up to the feeling of someone forcing him to sit up. He can hear people arguing, familiar voices that yet sound completely alien. In his feverish and tired state he can barely open his eyes and he can’t really process anything that is happening.

Mycroft protests as he’s forced to swallow a foul tasting beverage, instinctively trying to throw up. Whoever is holding him closes his mouth and blocks his nose, which makes him swallow. He trashes and tries to fight off his ‘attackers’, but he’s too weak to do much.

He slips back to sleep shortly after.

* * *

 

When he wakes up again, he thinks he’s doing better. At least his head isn’t aching as much and his fever seems to have dropped. The world has lost its blurry quality too; everything looks sharper and more real.

As he looks around the room, his eyes land on a figure folded on a chair next to the bed. His heart promptly sinks at the sight; he’s obviously not doing better, if anything he’s doing worse: he’s hallucinating.

The figure on the chair stirs and as he moves, Mycroft feels more convinced he’s not hallucinating. It can’t be though, it really can’t, but then again-

Why would he be hallucinating John Watson of all people?

“Good morning,” the younger male says after noticing he’s observing him. “Slept well?”

“You’re not dead,” Mycroft points out and under any other circumstances he would feel terribly stupid at pointing out the obvious, but right now-

John hums, standing up and coming closer, presumably to check on him. “No, I’m not. Whatever gave you that idea?”

Mycroft doesn’t answer right away, still trying to make sense of his jumbled mind. John observes him for a beat, before starting to do a quick check up. The Prince complies to all the doctor’s instructions, the feeling of irreality decreasing with each passing second.

“You do seem to be doing better,” John tells him, before picking up a cup from the night table. “Drink this.” When Mycroft doesn’t immediately obey, the blond rolls his eyes. “It’s just coffee. It might be a little cold…”

It is. It’s awfully cold, but it helps him cement his belief that this isn’t just a fevered dream. “This isn’t what you gave me last night.”

John smiles, going back to sit on the chair. “No, you’ll need to drink another dose of that antidote later, but for now the coffee should help. You were poisoned, you know?”

“I figured,” Mycroft replies sarcastically and John offers him an ironic smile. “How... When-?”

“You really should rest some more,” the doctor interrupts him. “Your body is still too weak; there’ll be time for explanations later. I have my own inquiries, you know?”

Yes, he does. Mainly about Sherlock, no doubt.

Better to follow the doctor’s instructions then.

* * *

 

He wakes up once more to the sound of people arguing. “What did you want me to do, John? I couldn’t have stopped the wedding, although I did try to talk Sherlock out of it-”

“And he didn’t listen?!”

“It’s... complicated. He had reasons to accept-”

“Reasons that you refuse to explain to me! Honestly Greg-”

“It’s not my place-”

“That’s quite enough,” the Prince interrupts the arguing men and they both turn to look at him. “My headache is bad enough as it is; I don’t need you two fighting, making it worse.”

“Time for the next dose, I should think,” John comments off handedly, shaking a small bottle in front of Mycroft. “It tastes awful, I know, but you need to drink the whole thing. If you want to live, that is.”

The older male glares and John offers him a smirk, before pouring some nasty looking liquid in a rather big spoon. The Prince makes a face, but opens his mouth willingly and tries to swallow the thing without a fuss.

He ends up coughing violently, but all things considered, he thinks he did alright.

For a beat, no one speaks, although Gregory offers him a glass of water. Their fingers make not-quite-accidental contact and they hold the position for maybe a bit too long, but while John notices, he just arches an eyebrow. The Prince blushes a little and hurries to drink his water, if only to have something to do.

“So, question time,” John says, clapping his hands, sounding entirely too eager.

“John,” Gregory protests, but the Alpha ignores him, his whole focus on Mycroft. The older male sighs, figuring he really has no other choice but to offer some type of explanation.

“Gregory is right,” he says, “my brother did have his reasons for marrying Duke Moriarty.”

“And which _reasons_ are these?” John demands, obviously angry. Mycroft briefly contemplates telling him he has a daughter, but quickly decides against it. It’s not that he wants to keep this secret from John, but he does know the younger man and he knows how reckless he can be: letting him know about Abigail’s existence would be a dangerous and unwise move.

Maybe it’s cruel, but he did promise his brother he would keep Abigail safe and in this case, he does believe his silence is justified.

“I don’t think it’s my place to explain.”

“Oh, so now you want to respect Sherlock’s privacy! Things have changed quite a bit, I see!”

“Well, you’ve been gone 3 years, what did you expect?” he replies, with far much more bite than he intended. Arguing won’t help at all and yet-

“Oh, don’t make it sound like I had a bloody choice! I would never... I would never have left Sherlock’s side willingly,” John argues darkly, anger barely contained and Mycroft decides it’s better if he shuts up; the doctor has quite a temper when provoked.

And considering the subject they’re discussing…

For the longest time, none of them speak, the tension heavy in the air. Finally, John sighs, his shoulders sagging, suddenly looking far older and more tired than he should be. Mycroft’s heart clenches a little at the reminder of yet another thing he has failed his brother at. “I’m sorry, John. I’ll explain it… someday. Right now I don’t think that it’ll be wise.”

The younger male looks slightly appeased, but in no way completely calm. Still, these years as a soldier have taught him to take orders without protesting, no matter how badly he wants to and so he simply stands straighter, nodding tightly once.

He’ll explain everything soon. But right now-

“I’m assuming you know about the latest attack on the Border,” John says, his voice betraying nothing of what he’s feeling. “Major Sholto survived, even if he was badly burned. Since we really couldn’t afford to stay still for long, recovery has been slow and painful, but he has made do. He has some… delicate information, so we believed it would be for the best if we made it to the Capital as soon as possible.” He pauses briefly, biting his lip gently. “For a while, we feared we were too late.”

Mycroft makes a face, but doesn’t comment. He realizes how close he was to dying and he really doesn’t want to think much about it. “What’s the official story?” he asks Gregory, sounding more collected than he feels.

“Stomach bug. A particular nasty stomach bug,” the guard replies with a small shrug and an unamused smile and John hufs at the phrasing. Mycroft rolls his eyes, but chooses not to comment.

“When can I see the Major?” the Prince asks instead, figuring the sooner they get this sorted, the better. The news might come a little too late for them to be of any real use to his brother, but for the sake of the Kingdom-

“Tonight probably,” John replies, with a shrug. “He’s been resting too, but he’s doing well enough to sneak into the Castle, I should think.”

Mycroft nods; it’ll do. He doesn’t intend to let anyone else know about his own recovery; the longer Magnussen believes his plan has worked, the more time they’ll have to come up with an attack plan. “Alright. Tonight then.”

John opens his mouth to say something else, but seems to think better of it and just nods once more, before turning to leave through the secret passage. He and Gregory exchange a dark look one last time and then the blond disappears so quickly that Mycroft is left wondering once more if everything was not just a product of his feverish mind.

“Do you think...?” Gregory begins hesitantly and Mycroft stares at him, encouraging him to finish his question, “do you think that what they have will be enough?”

Mycroft bites his lip, uncertain. “Perhaps. If Magnussen wanted Major Sholto dead so badly… he might have something very useful in his possession.”

For a beat, neither of them speak, both contemplating what this could mean. “We probably shouldn’t get our hopes up.”

Mycroft snorts. “No, probably not.”

And yet-

* * *

 

 _Badly burned_ might be the understatement of the century. The Major’s face is practically unrecognizable, angry red scars covering all the visible surface over his clothes. He must be in terrible pain and yet, the man manages to look as calm and collected as he did the last time Mycroft spoke to him.

“We weren’t expecting the attack, of course,” the Major tells him somberly. “Healing tents are usually… enemies don’t target doctors as a rule; it’s not an honorable thing to do. Of course that rat of a Lord doesn’t have any honor to speak of, but I didn’t think...” he shakes his head, angry at the detour of his own thoughts. “My apologies, your Royal Highness, I’m rambling.”

Mycroft waves a hand vaguely. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s just... so many lives were lost that night. I don’t... I’m not sure how I survived. And Watson here; if it wasn’t for his bravery-”

“Major, please,” the younger Alpha interrupts, a soft blush quickly spreading across his cheeks. “It’s no matter.”

“No matter,” the Major repeats, seemingly amused. “Almost got himself killed trying to drag me out of the camp; he should have run-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John argues, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re the one who has all the information we need.”

Sholto smiles briefly and so does Mycroft. That’s, evidently, not entirely true. Sholto trusted John enough to let him know what was going on, it’s likely he shared with him everything he found out too. That John decided to risk his life trying to save him was just John being his usual overly noble self.

Yet another one of those qualities that Sherlock seemed to find so loveable.

“This information being-?” the Prince prompts, figuring that if he doesn’t interrupt they’ll get stuck on this discussion all night long and they really don’t have the time for that. Sherlock can be properly impressed by all of John’s heroics later, Mycroft isn’t quite the appropriate audience for such tales.

Sholto turns to him, his eyes shining with unmasked frustration. The man is obviously grieving, angry at Magnussen and at himself for all the deaths this political scheme has caused and that he somehow feels responsible for. Still, when he speaks, his voice is clear and devoid of all emotion.

And that’s good. Because to be completely honest, Mycroft has never been any good at dealing with emotional components; cold, hard facts are always preferable to him.

Facts he can work with.

Emotions… no, definitely not with that.

* * *

 

If Magnussen isn’t expecting his plan to work, Mycroft doesn’t understand why he bothered with it in the first place. Moriarty is too much of a wild card for the Earl to risk it, especially when he had such a detailed plan b, along with a big enough army to carry it forward.

“An army of mercenaries?” Sholto scofs, obviously amused. “Not trustworthy at all. He might have the numbers to fight his Majesty’s army, but can he trust them not to turn on him? Of course not.” The Major leans back on his seat, looking thoughtful. “Mercenaries serve one master only; gold is their only ruler.”

“Can they be persuaded to change their side then?”

Sholto seems to consider this for a beat. “In theory, yes. If we can find the leader-”

“Can’t we?”

The Major sighs tiredly. “We could, I suppose. Not sure if we have the time.” He stares directly into the Prince’s eyes and Mycroft arches an eyebrow curiously. “How long before he just gives up on subtly trying to kill you and goes for something a little bolder?”

Mycroft bites his lip. He remembers his last conversation with Duke Moriarty and wonders if Lord Magnussen might try that approach if murdering him doesn’t quite work out. If it all comes down to it… well, he’ll rather not think about it.

“Find me the mercenary leader, Major,” the Crown Prince orders firmly and the older man stares at him for a long time, before standing up and bowing low.

“I’ll do my best, your Royal Highness.”

And with that he’s gone, John hurrying after him, leaving Mycroft alone with his thoughts.

Should he dare to hope?

* * *

 

There’s a commotion on the hallway and Mycroft groans as he attempts to sit up. He’s feeling much better thanks to whatever weird concoction John has been giving him, but he still suffers nasty headaches that aren’t improved by loud noises.

The door to his bedroom opens abruptly and his brother storms in. Sherlock looks absolutely wrecked, like he hasn’t slept or eaten in days and Mycroft immediately worries. He’s out of bed before he notices, his eyes scanning his brother for further proof of something being wrong and so he misses the younger Prince doing the same to him.

“You don’t look like you’re dying,” Sherlock says finally, almost accusingly. Mycroft frowns a little, wondering what he’s going on about and then he catches sight of Anthea and Gregory awkwardly standing at the doors and figures out what has happened.

It seems Anthea thought it would be a good idea to inform his baby brother of his imminent demise. He really should have warned her against it, but to be fair, he hasn’t seen her as much since Gregory resumed his previous position and since she’s officially still recovering…

Should he tell his brother what has happened? Should he let him know that not only he’s not dying, but that John has came back from the dead? Should he give him hope that he has no idea if it’ll turn into something else?

No. Just as he can’t tell John about Abigail, he can’t tell Sherlock about John. Both are too reckless, both are too in love. Sharing such secrets could be terribly dangerous and Mycroft is determined to keep his brother and niece as safe as possible.

“I’m not,” he answers finally, offering the younger male a small smile. “Not anymore.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him one last time, probably sensing he’s hiding something, before throwing his arms around his neck. The hug is a bit awkward, but Mycroft doesn’t complain, instead returning the embrace willingly.

“You can’t do that to me,” Sherlock whispers softly, tightening his grip, “you can’t.”

Mycroft closes his eyes and squeezes back. “I know. I won’t.”

He catches sight of his brother-in-law then, with his infuriating amused smirk and he swallows nervously. The odds are against them, that’s true, but Mycroft isn’t going down without a fight.

They’ll make it through.

They have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always overestimate by ability to write actual plot points that include some level of action/planning/resolution. I’m bad at that. Huh.  
> It took me awhile to update because I wasn’t really happy with the scene between Mycroft and Greg. It’s not exactly what I planned and I think it lacks a bit of _feeling_  
>  but… well, I don’t know. Also, I’ve never written an attempted murder and poison research was unbelievably difficult. The symptoms Mycroft exhibits here are from belladonna poisoning, as for the antidote… well, I ended up with a lot of conflicting information, but the sources I consulted seemed to agree on coffee being helpful, along with certain sedatives (opium, laudanum) and a certain type of mushroom. Also something called “blue stone” but well, nothing was particularly enlightening so…I apologise for the inaccuracy.  
> I’m currently working on the next chapter; I was hoping to have the fic finished before the weekend, since my daughter is staying with my in-laws and so I have a lot of free time but well… I’m also still looking for work and despite my own beliefs, I guess it should take precedence over fic writing. Also, I might be a little stuck with how exactly things are going to get solved so… there’s that.  
> Eh… remember I said no character death at the beginning of the story? Well… as long as they’re not main characters it doesn’t count, does it? Should I tag it?  
> Not sure when the next update will be ready, since I do believe I’m going to write a companion piece going from Greg’s POV, so it might finish shedding light on what’s going inside his head, along with a little more about John’s sudden reappearance. Still, I haven’t started working on that so it might take a while.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!


	15. Pointless battles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperation breeds chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter… I’m not completely satisfied with it since I’m having some trouble to wrap things up but well… all things considered, I think it works.  
> Also, remember the character’s death I mentioned? Well… not that I think any of you will feel particularly sorry for the ‘victim’ but well, I figured I should warn you. Nothing graphic or really troubling, but well…  
> Enjoy?

“I expected you to ask questions.”

Gregory doesn’t move from his position next to the window, his eyes scanning the outside despite the lack of light. Mycroft sips his tea quietly, content with just observing the guard, but burning with unsated curiosity.

“Did you? Which ones?” the younger male asks calmly, still not turning to him, his eyes intent on spotting any sort of trouble that might arise.

Mycroft sighs, feeling tired. It’s been two days since he officially recovered; after Sherlock stormed into his bedroom, it was a little difficult to keep up with the pretense. The Prince doesn’t believe another attempt on his life will be made so soon and if it is made, he doubts it’ll be something as crude as an actual assassin slipping into his rooms, but well… better safe than sorry, he supposes.

“I can’t tell them, Gregory. It’s just- it’s dangerous, isn’t it?” he asks, hesitant. It’s a wonder that, despite everything, he still feels comfortable enough discussing his fears and doubts with his guard, not to mention he feels he’ll be understood even if he’s not being particularly clear.

“If John knew he had a daughter he would take Abigail away with him. And then he’d go to Sherlock’s ‘rescue’ and we’d never see them again,” the other male concedes, sparing a quick glance in his direction. “Or some other reckless thing like that.”

“They would be safer though, wouldn’t they?”

A sigh and Mycroft focuses his gaze on his half empty cup. Deep in his heart, he’s constantly wondering if he’s doing the right thing, if he’s not being cruel to his brother for no good reason. Still-

“You’re going to need Sherlock’s help to-”

“Forget about that,” Mycroft interrupts firmly. “It doesn’t matter. If Sherlock-”

“Stop being so damn self sacrificing!” Gregory exclaims, finally abandoning his post next to the window. “I understand you want him to be happy, but you can’t do this on your own. You need all the help you can get.”

“We might still lose,” the Prince declares darkly. “And if we do, how could I forgive myself for-?”

“We’re not losing,” the other argues passionately. “We’re not,” he repeats, kneeling in front of the Prince, taking his hands in his, squeezing them. Mycroft gulps, trying to get himself to breath evenly, but not quite succeeding.

For the longest time, neither speaks, they just stare into each other’s eyes, trying to convey all the emotions they’re feeling. Their situation is more desperate than ever before, there’s much left to be said after their ill timed confessions at what at the moment seemed like the Prince’s death bed, but for now...

For now there are more pressing matters to focus on.

“We will,” Mycroft asserts, finally pulling his hands back. “Of course we will.”

Gregory offers him a tight smile and goes to stand next to the window once more. Mycroft closes his eyes, tired beyond words. “You should go to sleep,” he murmurs softly, standing up. “So should I, for that matter.”

The guard stares at him, not moving and Mycroft finds himself blushing, despite not having a reason for it. There’s something... heated in the way the other is looking at him and he feels-

“I’m not really comfortable leaving you on your own,” he tells him, stepping closer. “I know it’s highly improper, but could I stay with you? Not... I don’t mean-”

“Yes,” the Prince interrupts, probably too eagerly and so he blushes furiously. “I... umm... I meant-”

Gregory chuckles, making an abortive motion to touch him that leaves Mycroft breathless. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he offers and the older male finds himself licking his lips.

“No need for that,” he tells him, taking a step closer to his companion so they’re practically pressed chest to chest. “We shouldn’t-” he whispers, when Gregory tilts his head just so that if Mycroft was to lean down a little-

“No, we shouldn’t,” the other agrees but doesn’t move and Mycroft gulps. Their eyes lock and the Prince knows he’s lost. He closes the last distance between their lips and for a few seconds, he just basks on the feeling of his former lover’s lips under his. A desperate moan makes its way out of his throat then and he locks his arms around Gregory’s waist, pulling him closer.

“We really shouldn’t,” the guard tells him once more, once they part for breath.

“No,” Mycroft repeats, breathing heavily, a part of his mind screaming this is a terrible idea, but another part- “then again, we’re already doomed, aren’t we?”

His companion chuckles humorlessly and pulls him into another kiss.

Doomed indeed.

* * *

 

“Well, isn’t this an unexpected development?”

Mycroft wakes up immediately, the paranoia of the last few weeks never letting him sleep profoundly. He sits up on the bed, vaguely aware of an arm around his waist and stares at the man standing at the bed’s feet.

“Hello John,” he greets pleasantly and the former soldier arches an eyebrow, mostly amused, but there’s something dark in his eyes. Mycroft frowns and that’s when he finally notices his state of undress, along with the fact that he’s not alone in the bed.

“You ought to be more careful,” John suggests calmly. “A maid could walk in, early in the morning…” He gestures vaguely; there’s no need for him to finish that thought. The Prince sighs, but nods. “Although maybe it wouldn’t be as bad,” the blond muses out loud. “The servants of the Castle seem pretty sympathetic of Sherlock’s and my situation, so maybe they’d feel inclined to keep the secret for you.”

Mycroft frowns. “What?”

The doctor rolls his eyes. “Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe sex does rot your brain,” he says sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m trying to tell you I’ve got some information that might interest you. And I got it from the servants, because while a good part of them had been bought by Lord Magnussen-” Mycroft opens his mouth to interrupt, but John carries on calmly, “most feel very sympathetic of my ‘loss’.”

Mycroft isn’t sure what to say to that, so he just stares at the other male for a long while, sleepiness making his thinking progress absurdly slow. John huffs, evidently getting more frustrated with each passing minute. “Should I come back tomorrow?” he offers sarcastically, “when you’re less shagged out?”

Mycroft glares as he hears a chuckle next to him. Gregory sits up, offering John a quick smile. “Sorry about that, mate.”

The doctor rolls his eyes once more, but he seems to have soften a little. Mycroft guesses it has to do with the fact that while he tolerates the Prince, he actually likes Gregory and so he tries not to feel too offended.

As John starts giving his report, Mycroft’s brain finally catches up with him and he realizes what the younger male said earlier, making his heart clench immediately and filling him with guilt.

People are sympathetic of his ‘loss’.

God, what a mess.

* * *

 

Sherlock looks far from happy, but physically fine. He might be slightly skinnier than the last time Mycroft saw him and perhaps a tad paler, but all things considered, the older Prince is inclined to think he’s doing alright.

“Stop that,” the younger male barks, crossing his arms over his chest, frustrated by his brother’s obvious concern. Mycroft frowns lightly, but quickly smooths his expression. He knows how much Sherlock hates to feel like he’s being treated like a child or, even worse, _pitied_ , so the least he can do is to treat him like everything was perfectly normal.

It doesn’t mean he’s not worried.

“Can you focus?” the younger Prince snaps after a beat, when Mycroft fails to say anything at all. “I’ve gotten some information that-”

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” he apologises for what feels like the hundredth time. His brother pursues his lips, somewhere between saddened and frustrated.

“It gave me the perfect excuse to come home,” he whispers finally, not looking at his older sibling. “I needed... there’s much I need to tell you and I couldn’t risk a letter.” He looks up then, his eyes shining with quiet determination. “So it was probably for the best.”

Mycroft nods, even if he doesn’t quite feel that way. He knows Sherlock must have been sick with worry, and maybe even a tiny bit afraid, but he also knows that the younger male won’t admit it so he decides not to press the subject anymore.

“So, this information that you have...”

Since neither is particularly good at discussing emotions, it might be for the best if they focus on the matters at hand. Still, Mycroft can’t help to feel a stab of guilt as he remembers once more that he’s deliberately lying to his brother (even if it’s just by omission) at a moment when they need to trust each other completely.

He can’t tell him about John, though. He would insist on seeing the doctor and he needs the blond focusing on his own tasks. It’s critical that they figure out an attack plan and he needs Sherlock and John apart for things to work out more smoothly. Close proximity to each other would do nothing but distract them.

He wonders if that’s hypocritical of him.

(Yes, it is).

* * *

 

“I want to talk to Sherlock.”

Mycroft doesn’t answer right away, instead pretending to be deeply concentrated on the papers in front of him. John of course won’t be fooled, but he’s hoping to buy some time...

John snatches the papers from his hands, glaring at the older male. Mycroft glares back, but he knows how immune the blond is to his deathly stares. “I didn’t think you would be asking for my permission,” he replies evenly, crossing his arms over his chest and John huffs.

“I’m nowhere nearly as unobservant as Sherlock liked to point out,” the doctor tells him angrily. “There’s no chance I’ll get him alone when his creep of a husband trails after him like a shadow; the only moments he’s on his own is when he comes to see you and I know Greg is tasked with having me be somewhere else when that happens.”

Mycroft bites his lip, hesitating. He hadn’t actually expected John to pick on that, at least not so soon. He had been hoping that his brother would leave before John demanded to see him, although in retrospective, he should have known better. In fact, it’s a true wonder it has taken this long.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says slowly, measuring his words. When John opens his mouth to speak, Mycroft hurries to carry on. “It could be dangerous.”

“How exactly?” John asks angrily, glaring again. “I could simply come in while he’s with you. I’m certain-”

“John, you know how… reckless my brother can be. If he was to know that you’re alive-”

“What? Afraid he’ll drop everything and run away with me?”

Yes, that’s it. Or at least, part of it. He knows that’s exactly what Sherlock will want to do and he can’t really blame him, but- “You two have proven to make very rash decisions when pressed-”

“Oh, don’t give that crap!” the younger male exclaims. “I wouldn’t... I do realize what is at stake here. I wouldn’t be as selfish as to simply...! And frankly, that after all of this you still think your own brother capable of leaving you alone...! God, Mycroft, what’s wrong with you?”

He almost laughs at that, but manages to keep his hysterical laughter under control. “There are certain things... certain things you’re not aware of, John. I don’t... It’s not that I don’t trust Sherlock, is that I know... If he choose to leave with you, I couldn’t blame him. And yes, to be honest, I’m scared of what would happen if he does. I can’t...I can’t...”

He guesses it’s a testament of how bad things are the fact that he’s discussing this with John Watson of all people. He and his brother’s friend have always tolerated each other, both all too aware of the other’s importance in Sherlock’s life. However, their relationship has always been far from friendly or trusting and so-

“What aren’t you telling me?” John demands, his tone deathly calm. Mycroft stares at him for a beat, wondering if he ought to speak, thinking that he should, if only to appease his conscience. He _is_ scared and he certainly doesn’t believe he’ll be able to handle being left alone to deal with this threat, but... His brother might have a chance of saving himself (and his daughter) and isn’t that really all he can ask for?

“I need you to trust me on this, John. It’s for the best that Sherlock doesn’t find out you’re alive.”

The blond stares at him for a long while, before sighing. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t.”

He turns around sharply, exiting the room before Mycroft can even think of saying something. The Prince leans back on his chair, letting out a frustrated sigh. It’s terribly unfair, he knows and Sherlock is unlikely to forgive him if things turn for the worse and he finds out that John isn’t dead under dire circumstances. Still-

He realizes he’s shaking and he doesn’t know if it’s due exhaustion, anger or sadness. He can’t really tell what he’s feeling for sure, his mind a jumbled mess that makes no sense whatsoever.

He has made his choices, though.

He’ll have to live with the consequences and pray he’ll be able to make up to his brother.

* * *

 

“You’re very tense,” Gregory tells him that night, once they’re lying at bed. It’s funny how just the other’s presence can make him feel quite content, despite the mess his life has become.

Still, while he can’t bring himself to regret their love, he sometimes can’t help thinking-

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

He’s shaking again. He sits up, a curse leaving his lips. Gregory hurries to sit up too, placing a hand gingerly over his shoulder, obviously unsure if the contact is welcome. Mycroft sighs, his shoulders sagging as he turns to stare at the ceiling. “John asked to see Sherlock.”

The guard sighs too, sounding tired. “I figured he would. He has been… restless. Understandable, really.”

“There are still many loose ends and I really can’t afford... I can’t afford either of them getting side tracked. Besides, I _know_ Sherlock; he thinks he’s a good liar and maybe he is, but Moriarty is quite observant too and considering he barely leaves him with enough space to breath… he’ll realize something is going on sooner or later.”

“Which would endanger John and Abby, most likely,” Greg agrees, taking the Prince’s hands in his. “I do understand your reasons. It might seem… cruel or even unfair, but I do believe you have a good reason for keeping the secret.”

“Isn’t it hypocritical, though? That I trust them to do dangerous things to get the information we need, but I don’t trust them to be careful about...?” he gestures vaguely. “And considering what we’re doing…”

Gregory doesn’t reply, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Mycroft sighs, defeated. “I don’t know what to do anymore,” he confesses brokenly. “I feel terribly ill-equipped to deal with this.”

His companion stares at him, a sad look in his face. He leans in to press a quick kiss against Mycroft’s cheek, making the Prince smile fleetingly. “We’ll manage, somehow. You need to believe there’s hope, Mycroft, otherwise... otherwise every plan, every sacrifice… everything is pointless.”

He knows that.

Easier said than done, though.

* * *

 

“Lord Magnussen, what a pleasant surprise.”

Sherlock snorts from his place at the table, earning himself a glare from Father. Next to him, Moriarty smirks briefly, before turning his attention back to breakfast. The Earl for his part ignores them, his eyes focused on the recently arrived Prince.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing well, your Highness. It seems the rumors about your sickness were quite exaggerated.”

Mycroft smiles coolly, taking his usual seat. “Just a nasty stomach bug,” he replies conversationally. From the corner of his eye he catches sight of Sherlock biting his lip a little too harshly, but ignores it.

“Something you ate didn’t sit well with you, then? I would have thought the help would be more careful with what they feed the Royal Family,” Magnussen comments pleasantly and Mycroft has to force himself not to glare and instead smile politely.

“I would think poison would sit unwell with anyone,” the Queen says with false cheer, startling everyone at the table since she usually keeps to herself when in the presence of other nobles. “But then that’s just my opinion, of course.”

“Violet,” the King warns and it’s obvious they have been arguing the subject lately. Mycroft frowns, confused by his mother’s statement and his father’s tone. That the King would be unwilling to contemplate the possibility that he was poisoned would be expected, but for the Queen to actually say something-

“Surely your Majesty isn’t suggesting someone tried to murder the Prince? Who would try such thing?” Lord Magnussen asks, his tone unbelieving but for the trained ear, it’s easy to spot the threatening tone underneath.

“Who, indeed” the Queen replies evenly, staring directly at the Earl. The King glares at her and so she obediently looks down, fixing her eyes on her plate. “I do apologise if I somehow have made you uncomfortable, my Lord. I was deeply worried about my son’s health, you see,” she says after a beat, when Father continues glaring at her. The King nods approvingly, turning his attention back to his own breakfast.

“Completely understandable, of course, your Majesty,” Lord Magnussen says calmly. “It’s a well known fact that Omegas can get quite protective of their offspring. Some even a little… hysterically so.”

Mycroft exchanges a look with his brother, who looks as confused as he feels about their mother’s little outburst. It seems so out of character of her and at the same time-

What does it all mean?

* * *

 

Two days later, there’s an urgent knock on his door and under any other circumstances, it would be funny how quickly Gregory slips out of the bed and hides behind the heavy curtains, but being still half asleep, Mycroft doesn’t really appreciate the humor in the situation. He tells his mysterious caller to come in and is quite startled when the Queen steps in.

“Mother?”

She’s looking around the room, her keen eyes taking everything in. Mycroft prays she won’t notice the second set of clothes lying on the floor and that she won’t ask why the Prince isn’t wearing anything to bed, but-

“Get dressed,” she tells him, her eyes still roaming around the room, until they come to rest on the curtains behind which the guard is hiding. Mycroft’s heart is beating furiously, but he prays it doesn’t show on his face. “Something black would do.” She turns around then, exiting the room as quickly as she had come in. Outside the room he catches sight of his mother’s own personal guard, who hurries to trail after the Queen and once the door closes with a loud bang, Mycroft remains where he is, frowning.

“What happened?” Gregory asks, peering out of the curtains and Mycroft shakes his head, as confused as his lover. The guard comes to stand next to the bed. “Should we worry?”

The Prince bites his lip, feeling uncertain. “I don’t know,” he replies honestly and exchanging one last concerned look with his companion, he stands up and hurries to obey Mother’s orders.

He doesn’t know what’s going on, but his heart feels heavy in his chest.

He can tell there are bad things coming their way.

* * *

 

Outside his chambers, Anthea is waiting. The female offers his a grim nod, before gesturing for him to follow. When Gregory hesitates, the Alpha growls lowly, startling both males, but making them hurry after her. They exchange yet another concerned glance as they walk down the corridor, towards the King’s room.

Anthea knocks on the door and it opens, revealing the waiting room, filled with people. Sherlock sits at one of sofas, his dress robe tied tightly around himself, looking distinctly uncomfortable. His husband sits next to him, also in his nightclothes with a fancy robe over them.

In one of the corners of the rooms, 2 female Alphas that Mycroft recognizes as the Royal couple’s personal guards stand, next to a man that the Prince has seen around Moriarty often enough to guess he’s the Duke’s version of security. Anthea gestures for Gregory to join her with the other guards and the man looks at Mycroft, asking for his approval. The Prince nods tightly, his whole body tense, his mind working furiously trying to put the pieces together.

The doors to the King’s bedroom open and Dr. Stamford walks out. The man looks tired and defeated and something clenches inside the Prince. It can’t be, but-

The Queen steps out shortly after and it’s only then when Mycroft notices his mother’s mourning clothes. He finds himself out of breath, unwilling to believe his eyes, but there’s really no other explanation-

“The King is dead,” the Queen enunciates clearly, her voice firm and no sign of distress on her face. Sherlock turns to him right away, his eyes wide, mouth slacked with surprise. Mycroft, however, barely notices.

The King is dead. Which means-

What does it mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> I might have rewritten the scene between Mycroft and John like 5 times. At some point, I even considered leaving it out but it just seemed like it was needed so… I played with a couple scenarios there: Mycroft telling John about Abigail, Mycroft heavily implying John and Sherlock had a daughter, Mycroft and John getting into a really nasty argument in which he blurted out the truth but well… none of them were really working so I stick with this. Not sure if it was the right call since I feel ridiculously guilty about it, but well… thoughts?  
> Only two more chapters to go! And since I got into a fight with my husband last night and that always seems to do wonders for my inspiration, next chapter is practically done (somewhat. I’m worried it’s a bit confusing, so I’ll need to do some heavy editing, but well…) Anyway, next update should be ready soon, although I’m wondering if I ought to write a companion piece for this chapter. I don’t think anyone believes John is sitting quietly, just simply agreeing not to see Sherlock, but I’m not entirely sure I can write his POV of this whole affair. Maybe I will because of it’s angst potential, but is there something else you guys thinks I should clarify before we’re done here? Let me know!  
> As usual, a million thanks for reading!


	16. (Not so) Pointless hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are coming to an end.  
> But endings are never easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week was a bit chaotic and despite I almost had the whole chapter finished, I kept getting interrupted when I wanted to write. Also… well, you’ll see, but there are some scenes that I’m not really used to write and so I kept worrying the sound weird so…  
> Before we begin, I was convinced I had explained how he whole monarchy thing worked before, but then I realized I edited that part out of chapter 2 (yeah, I know, it took me very long to notice) and while I have drop hints here and there, it might be a little confusing because, well, there’s a bit of information I erased and that would probably make the whole thing much more understandable. While I attempt to remedy that in this chapter, just allow me to give you a very brief explanation of how things work (according to my own crazy ideas, not based on nothing in particular, really)  
> So, while Mycroft and Sherlock can both inherit the title of “King”, being both Omegas they’d be just King in name. Their decisions would have to go through their mates, who would play a role sort of like a senate in a modern republic (only, you know, much smaller) and so they’re technically powerless. In this case, since Mycroft isn’t married, the role would fall on the closer Alpha member of the family (meaning Moriarty here).  
> Hope that was understandable? Let me know if not!  
> Now, without further ado, enjoy?

The room is silent for the longest time, no one moving. Sherlock’s eyes dart between his brother and their mother, all the while looking quite horrified and worried. Mycroft can’t say he doesn’t share the feeling: there’s an unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach that suggests he’s about to be sick.

“Would you mind leaving me and my children alone?” the Queen asks gently, addressing Moriarty but obviously referring to everyone else in the room. The man stares at Sherlock for a beat, curious, but finally nods and stands up.

“Of course, your Majesty,” he says, bowing low before exiting the room quietly. The guards follow after him, Gregory throwing one last concerned glance in Mycroft’s direction, which the Prince ignores, not really knowing how to react.

Once alone with his brother and mother, he realizes his legs won’t be able to hold him up any longer and so he collapses next to his brother on the couch, his mind still reeling from the revelation.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock breaks the silence finally, looking just a tad hysterical. “Why would they try to murder you and when they failed, turn to murder Father instead?”

Mycroft throws a sharp glare in his brother’s direction, but the younger male glares back unapologetically. “Oh, please. Mummy knows. Of course she bloody knows.”

The Queen has gone to stand by the window, looking out with a thoughtful expression. “I do believe it’s just an unfortunate coincidence.”

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” both brothers state, turning to look at her in unison. The female smiles ironically, but doesn’t argue, instead continuing to stare outside the window.

“Lord Magnussen wouldn’t have murdered your father without all the other pieces in their rightful places,” she argues calmly after what feels like a lifetime. “If it isn’t a coincidence, then there’s someone else playing the game, although I wouldn’t be able to tell, for the life of me, what they’re hoping to gain.”

The brothers share a grim look, their own thoughts going pretty much in the same direction. “If you knew about the conspiracy-” Mycroft begins and the Queen scoffs.

“I have never cared for Magnussen’s petty power games,” she tells him darkly. “As long as they didn’t affect me, I couldn’t have cared less.”

“Then why-?”

“I might not be a good mother, but I’m still your mother,” she utters sharply, clenching her fists. “An unhappy marriage is one thing; a very expected thing. A murder attempt? Not so much.”

“You do know my husband was involved in that, don’t you?” Sherlock demands angrily and the Queen spares a quick look in his direction.

“You have a cruel husband, Sherlock, but he won’t hurt you,” she tells him smoothly. “His cruelness is limited to the rest of the world.”

“How reassuring,” the Prince spats and Mycroft sighs, thinking that’s not exactly true. While Moriarty might never harm Sherlock physically, there are many ways to hurt someone. Still, he doesn’t see any point in arguing with Mother and so he places a hand over his brother’s thigh, signaling for him to be quiet. Sherlock scowls, but complies.

“What now?” he asks their mother, hoping she’ll have some insight on what they can do now.

The female entwines her fingers beneath her chin, deep in thought. “Nothing much changes, when you think about it cooly. Your lover might be safer now, though. Without your father, you, like your brother, are pretty much at Duke Moriarty’s mercy.”

 _Now that’s reassuring_ , Mycroft thinks bitterly. Then he realizes what Mother has said. “You knew?!” he asks, slightly horrified and also a bit worried, wondering what else she knows. Judging by Sherlock’s own horrified expression, he’s wondering the same thing.

“You do realize you took your brains after me, don’t you?” she asks, a tad of annoyance and frustration slipping into her tone. “Of course I knew. And honestly Mycroft, anyone with two eyes and the slightest bit of observation skills would have noticed.”

She doesn’t say anything else and although he can’t deny he’s a little unnerved by his mother knowing about his lover, he’s relieved to know she’s still apparently ignorant of the fact that she already has a granddaughter.

“There is one thing,” the Queen says after a while, leaving her place next to the window and coming to stand in front of her oldest son instead. “For all intents and purposes, after your coronation, Duke Moriarty will in fact hold the true power.” Mycroft clenches his jaw, nodding. Although his secondary gender doesn’t challenge his right to the throne, he would never be trusted to make the best decisions for the Kingdom, which means everything he would attempt to do would have to be approved by his Alpha and since he lacks one, his brother’s Mate shall take that duty. He knows this and although he also knows he’ll fight the Duke every step of the way to make sure he doesn’t abuse his power, there’s no way-

“You should abdicate.” Mycroft looks up sharply, not believing his ears. Surely Mother didn’t suggest-?

“Mother?”

The female huffs, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Either as Royal Adviser or as King’s Consort, Duke Moriarty will be the true King. If you abdicate, you could leave and I’m fairly certain Lord Magnussen would be willing to spare your life then, especially since you won’t be having any children with your Beta that could threaten the succession line.” Mycroft stares, open mouthed, unbelieving. “Less of two evils and all that.”

“Are you- are you seriously-?” Mycroft begins, horrified by his mother’s suggestion. “You are not seriously suggesting that I leave to save myself? You can not be suggesting I leave my brother and the kingdom at the mercy of those.... those  ** _traitors._ ** _”_

Sherlock is staring at him thoughtfully and Mycroft prays he doesn’t believe he would even consider such thing. He would never, ever-

“Why must you both be miserable? And either way love, you’ll be leaving Sherlock and the Kingdom at their mercy. If you stay, you’ll be killed and I-”

“I’m not leaving!” Mycroft exclaims, enraged, standing up and glaring at the Queen. “I won’t,” he states sharply, before turning around and exiting the room in a rush, his heart beating furiously inside his chest, feeling angry and betrayed.

How could anyone even suggest that?

He might not have much hope, but he won’t be giving up without a fight.

No way in hell.

* * *

 

Mycroft finds himself kicking furniture and throwing things against the wall, trying to ease his frustration. Anthea and Gregory, who had been waiting for him outside his father’s rooms, observe him in silence, both looking nervous and wanting to intervene, but unsure of what to do or say.

The Prince mutters to himself angrily, his mind reeling with the Queen’s suggestion. It just goes showing how little she truly knows him if she honestly thought that he could even contemplate-

“She’s right, you know.”

He turns around sharply to find Sherlock standing by the door. His younger brother has a haunted look in his face, but his voice is steady when he speaks. “If you abdicated-”

“I won’t!” Mycroft exclaims once more, throwing a glass figure across the room. “I won’t leave you alone! How can you even-?”

“All I would ask of you is to take Abigail with you,” Sherlock interrupts him smoothly. Turning to Gregory, he asks, “you would look after her, yes? Raise and love her as if she was yours?”

For a beat, Gregory just stares at the younger male uncomprehendingly, then he turns to Mycroft. “What the heck is your brother talking about?” he demands, obviously quite frustrated himself.

“Mother suggested I gave up my right to the throne. That way I would be free to leave and it’s entirely likely Lord Magnussen wouldn’t make another attempt on my life, especially since you and I can’t have children of our own, so the right to the throne of any offspring my brother has with Duke Moriarty wouldn’t be threatened.”

Gregory stares between the two brothers for a couple of seconds before yelling, “What?! How can you even think-?” he demands of Sherlock, who glares at him.

“All I want is for my daughter to be safe,” he argues stubbornly. “If you two leave-”

“We’re not leaving!” Gregory explodes, throwing his arms up in frustration. “Come on Sherlock, don’t be stupid! We couldn’t leave you on your own anymore than we could... I don’t know... leave our own children!”

Mycroft arches an eyebrow at the analogy, although he guesses it’s not completely off. His urge to look after his brother has always been a bit more fatherly than brotherly, but-

Sherlock scoffs, getting ready to argue some more and Mycroft wonders if he should play his hidden card now. If Sherlock knew his beloved still lives, would he be so willing to sacrifice himself?

God, what’s he even thinking? How can he contemplate using John like that? Even if it’s for Sherlock’s own good-

“It’s not happening, Sherlock,” he cuts his brother off. “That’s it, end of the discussion,” he states in his best matter-of-fact tone and although the younger Prince opens his mouth to argue, he finally settles for just throwing a dark glare in his direction. “Everything will work out,” he says, aiming to sound confident. “I promise.”

Sherlock nods, unconvinced, but willing to let the matter go for now. Mycroft knows they’ll review the subject if it seems like things won’t work out after all, but for now-

For now they’ll let it go.

* * *

 

“You really wouldn’t even consider it, would you?”

Going back to sleep, after the events of the night, would be a pointless exercise, so instead Mycroft has chosen to review some files. Gregory has taken a seat next to him, giving his input on occasion, but mostly looking lost in his own thoughts.

“What?” Mycroft asks sharply, suspecting where this conversation is going and feeling deeply uncomfortable with it. After what Gregory had told Sherlock he had actually allowed himself to think-

“I don’t mean I think we should do it,” the guard hurries to clarify, sensing the dark turn the Prince’s thoughts have taken. “I do know you would never leave your brother and… well, he might be frustrating and infuriating, but I do care about him. I wouldn’t want to leave him in Moriarty’s clutches anymore than you would. I just... I’m curious. Don’t you... don’t you ever wonder what if-?”

“Thinking of _what ifs_ is a pointless exercise, Gregory. Even if Sherlock’s well being wasn’t at stake, I could never turn my back on my duty. I... I might not be exactly happy with my destiny, but I have accepted it,” he pauses briefly, his heart clenching painfully inside his chest. “I thought you understood that.”

“I do,” the other tells him firmly, grabbing one of his hands and squeezing it comfortingly. “I know that even if we make it past this… there’s no happy ending waiting for us at the end of the road. Trust me Mycroft, I know.” He looks away for a second and Mycroft bites back his immediate attempt to say something reassuring. That’s the truth and nothing will change it, but- “I know we could never marry. I know that the most I can aspire to be is your lover and I know that you would oppose to that out of some sense of fairness but to be honest I..." he stares at him in the eye and Mycroft freezes at all the emotion reflected in Gregory’s eyes. “If you let me stay in your life, I would never care in which capacity I do.”

Mycroft sighs. He had pushed Gregory away in a vain attempt to protect them both and when that hadn’t worked, he had selfishly claimed the other back, even if he knew his circumstances hadn’t changed and therefore he still couldn’t offer him anything. He had allowed himself to dwell into this illusion of happiness, because he had thought them doomed either way, but that’s not exactly the truth. If they lose, there won’t be a future to worry about, but if they do win…

What happens then?

“Don’t worry about that just yet,” Gregory whispers, pressing a quick kiss against his cheek. “One step at the time.”

One step at the time.

And yet-

* * *

 

The news of the King’s death spread like wildfire but tradition dictates the funeral to be a rather private affair: some old tale about it being bad luck dwelling on death. The preparations for the coronation however, begin right away.

Mycroft watches the preparations with a cold sense of dread, almost as bad as the one he felt when his brother was getting married.

Everyone is working like crazy, desperate to find a way to outdo Lord Magnussen. How much have the man’s plans changed is difficult to say and the Prince worries, because desperation always breeds chaos and a desperate man is more willing to take risks, so…

Major Sholto left the Capital two days before the King’s death, after finding a particular promising lead, although he didn’t share any details with John, only asking the blond to inform the Prince he would be back as soon as possible. Mycroft can only pray the _promising lead_ is indeed useful _,_ because otherwise-

They’re running out of time.

Lord Magnussen might have lost his upper hand regarding the blackmail (to a point), but Mycroft knows most nobles will side with him (and Moriarty) unless he can prove himself better suited for power. His sole secondary gender makes him unworthy in the nobility's eyes, but if he can outsmart the Alpha…

Well, all he can do is hope it’ll work.

Besides, if Magnussen does succeed on murdering him, nothing else will matter much, will it?

* * *

 

_Two weeks._

Mycroft turns the letter over and over, as if by examining it from other angles will suddenly reveal new words. There’s nothing that suggests the rest of the message was written with invisible ink and yet, he has tried every method he knows to reveal such ink with no luck.

What does it mean?

He turns to John, who’s not looking at him. The younger man seems terribly distracted and although Mycroft can guess the reason for it, he dares not to comment on the subject. In any case, there’s nothing he can do, especially not now. Later he’ll explain to John and Sherlock his reasons for his silence and ask for forgiveness, but right now he needs everyone to focus on their respective tasks if they want a _later_ to exist.

“Was this all? No envelope, no-?”

“No,” John deadpans. “Just the note. I don’t even… I recognized the handwriting, but I just _found_ it. There was not even a messenger I could interrogate, I don’t know how it ended up at the house we’re hiding in.”

Mycroft purses his lips, unsure of what to think. What is Sholto trying to tell them? What’s the point of sending such a cryptic message, why bother with something that tells them absolutely nothing?

Two weeks for what?

“It can mean any number of things,” Mycroft muses out loud, trying to keep his frustration out of his tone. “Two weeks for an attack, two weeks for him to come back, two weeks for-?”

“I’m not as dull as you might think, Mycroft,” the younger male interrupts him harshly. “I have already thought of that and I understand you’re frustrated, but so am I. The note tells me exactly the same that it tells you.”

That’s probably not true, the Prince thinks, slightly amused. For example, he now has a slight idea of where Major Sholto is, having had recognized the quality of the ink that’s made (and used) in a rather large town northwest; since the main ingredient for the pigment can’t be find anywhere else, it’s not largely used anywhere else the Kingdom. The town is less than a week away, in what’s actually Duke Moriarty’s territory but knowing this isn’t helpful at all as it brings him no insight on what the soldier might mean with _two weeks._

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “All we can do is wait, I guess,” he whispers tiredly. “I’ll have the Coronation scheduled in two weeks and we’ll see what happens in the meantime.”

John nods slowly, obviously unconvinced. Not that the Prince can blame him, since he doesn’t like the plan anymore than the younger male does, but it’s the best he can do with the limited information he has. “I’ll ask Anthea and Gregory to keep people in the watching towers, making sure we’re not taken by surprise by an hostile army, although-”

“We would know by now if that was going to happen,” John finishes for him. “Even if they made their way through Moriarty’s lands, some rumours would have reached the Capital.”

Or at least Mycroft hopes so. It’s hard to say for certain. “Anything else?”

John shrugs. “I’m afraid not,” he pauses briefly, considering his next words and Mycroft knows exactly where this conversation is going. And although he doesn’t wish to discuss the subject- “Sherlock looks… he doesn’t look well.”

The Prince sighs, intertwining his fingers beneath his chin in a thinking pose. “We’ve discussed this before, John. And not just with me, Gregory has told me-”

“Can you blame me?” the younger male argues darkly. “I haven’t seen him in years, Mycroft! I’ve missed him; I’ve been miserable without him. Is it too much to ask-?”

“We don’t know if we’ll make it out of this,” Mycroft interrupts smoothly. “What use is it giving him hope that we don’t know if it’ll pay off?”

John frowns, unconvinced. “What use is it letting him believe I’m dead? I can understand if you don’t want us seeing each other, but-”

“My brother spends far too much time in his husband’s company. So far both Moriarty and Magnussen seem uninformed of your survival, but if they were to find out-”

“If you’re worried about us being discreet-”

“I need you unnoticed and nothing like a dead man to retrieve the information we need,” the Prince interrupts once more, his tone a bit harsh. “And I won’t have you hurting Sherlock once more.”

“What?! I’d never-”

“He has mourned you twice already,” Mycroft says sharply. “I honestly thought he was going to let himself die after you were sent to the Northern Border. And after we found out about the explosion… I’m sorry John, but I’m afraid the third time might actually kill him.”

John bites his lip then, looking away. The Prince’s heart clenches, reminding himself this piece of cruelty is very much needed and that later- later-

“I’ll let you know if Major Sholto contacts me again,” the blond says after a lengthy pause. “And if I hear anything regarding Magnussen’s further plans…” He gestures vaguely and Mycroft nods. The doctor nods tightly once, before disappearing through the secret passage, leaving the Prince alone with his thoughts.

God, everything is such a mess.

* * *

 

Nobles start arriving a few days before the Coronation ceremony. The general atmosphere is a bit tense, but nothing terribly worrisome. The King’s death came quite unexpectedly and that sits ill with all the nobility, including the traitors. Even Magnussen seems slightly unnerved by the sudden death, which seems to cement the theory of it just being an unfortunate coincidence.

Still, the King wasn’t sick and so his death seems more than a little suspicious.

“Are you sure about this?” the Queen asks him before the banquet on the night previous to the Coronation. Mycroft stares at his mother for the longest time, wondering what he ought to say.

“The throne is my duty and my birth right. I won’t abdicate,” he replies finally, figuring there’s nothing else to say. The Queen nods once, her lips turn down, a look of quiet resignation on her face.

“Then so be it.”

* * *

 

That night he goes to bed without Gregory, who informed him earlier he might be busy during the night. Both have been working endlessly, trying to uncover as much as they can from the conspiracy, but Lord Magnussen has been very clever and even if what they have would be enough to convict the rest of the conspirators, it would be useless unless they can prove the Earl’s involvement.

He wishes he knew what Magnussen and Moriarty agreed on, because it would give him a clearer idea of what’s the Earl’s ultimate goal, but despite Sherlock’s best efforts, Moriarty has been quite secretive of that little bit of information.

His sleep is light and restless, so when someone knocks on the door he’s up immediately. The Queen peeks into the room, looking somewhere between content and troubled, which is a most odd combination.

“Something has come up,” she tells him, a slight smug tinkle in her eye. “Get dressed.”

Mycroft hurries to obey and then hurries after his mother into what used to be his father’s workroom. There’s a lot of commotion coming from inside and he immediately tenses, worried, but the Queen simply opens the door and steps in.

For a second, the Prince hesitates and then walks in too.

What now?

* * *

 

The source of the commotion seems to be a clearly outraged Magnussen, who is being restrained by a quite smug looking Gregory. The Prince frowns, confused, but then his eyes land on the other males in the room and he begins to see things a little more clearly.

“Major Sholto,” he greets pleasantly and the man bows slightly. “How nice to see you again.”

The soldier smirks, sending a dark glare in Magnussen’s direction who is seething by now. “I demand to be released immediately!” the Earl yells angrily. “This is most-!”

“Quiet now, my Lord or I’ll have Mr. Lestrade gagging you,” the Queen threatens him calmly and the man sputters, indignant. Mycroft allows himself a smug smile, before turning his attention to the sixth occupant of the room.

“And who you might be?” he questions softly and the man offers him a short bow.

“You might call me Mr. Brown, your Highness,” the man introduces himself, with a small smirk. “I’m… well, let’s say I have a small group of _friends_ that would be willing to do any fighting you ask of them, for a little gold in exchange.”

Ah, the mercenary chief. This is quite promising, indeed. “Are you? And did you and your _friends_ happened to have any dealings with Lord Magnussen here?”

The man smirks. “Indeed, your Highness.”

“Outrageous!” the Earl screams, a tinge of panic in his tone. “You can not believe-”

“Oh, my husband certainly wouldn’t have,” the Queen interrupts calmly, a dark smile on her lips. “But he’s not here, is he?” she continues pleasantly and Mycroft finds himself wondering once more about the circumstances of his father’s passing.

Not time for that, now. “Those are, however, very serious accusations. Do you have any proof, Mr. Brown?”

The mercenary offers him a nasty smile, before pulling a letter out of his vest. Magnussen glares, but Mycroft’s heart sinks. He should have expected it though, the Earl wouldn’t be as careless as to leave many incriminating letters. A single letter then- “I have many more, along with contracts and some promises of gold.”

Ah. Contracts. He observes Mr. Brown, a small smile on his lips. It takes a blackmailer to blackmail another, of course. Magnussen wouldn’t have paid them before the deed was completed, so having him sign a contract was a safe bet. If he refused to pay afterwards, said contract would found itself on its way to the Royal family and then-

Good, good. This is so very promising. “And what would you like in exchange for these letters and contracts?”

Brown shrugs, but his smile tells everything. “I’m just doing my civic duty, your Highness.”

Mycroft is tempted to laugh, but contains himself. Magnussen lets out a roar then and attempts to escape Gregory’s grip. The Alpha might have some biological advantage, but the Beta has been trained in combat and manages to knock him out shortly after. He grins sheepishly at Mycroft, who can’t help a fond smile at this.

Could this really be it? Are they really winning? Is it really over?

Of course it’s not that easy.

The door opens, allowing Sherlock in. Mycroft wonders who alerted his sibling and what exactly he has been told, but doesn’t think it matters much. The younger Prince looks around the room, confused for a second, but puts two and two together quickly enough. He turns to grin at his brother, obviously pleased, but their shared content is interrupted by Moriarty, who has also walked into the room and figured out what happened just as quickly (maybe even quicker).

In a flash, the Duke has pulled Sherlock against him, a dagger pressed against the Prince’s neck. Everyone in the room freezes, taken aback by the sudden turn of events and unsure of how to proceed. On regular circumstances, Mycroft has little doubt his brother could escape the tight grip and disarm the other man, regardless of his secondary gender, but this-

These aren’t regular circumstances. The bond between the Prince and his Mate is still too new and so his biology plays a role against the younger male. His inner Omega is urging Sherlock to submit, to please his Alpha in any way he can. Despite all his inner strength and his conscious desire to fight, his hormones are playing a dirty trick on him. His anger and frustration is easy to see and Mycroft aches for his younger brother, feeling like he has failed him once again.

“Let him go,” he orders darkly, standing tall and proud. “You’ve lost.”

Moriarty laughs then, a high pitched sound that makes everyone in the room flinch. Sherlock whimpers a little as his husband grabs him by the hair, pulling him somehow closer. “Not a chance, your Highness,” the Duke says, smirking cruelly. "No one moves,” he orders, after seeing both Gregory and Sholto getting ready for an attack, pressing the dagger closer to Sherlock’s throat, effectively stopping both men dead on their tracks.

“You wouldn’t hurt him,” Mycroft says, hoping against hope he’s right. He knows the Duke does like his brother and also the force of the new bond should be working on him too, but as usual, it’s nearly impossible to predict what the man might do.

“Wouldn’t I?” he muses outloud, tilting his head a little. “Do you really want to risk it?”

“It’s over, Moriarty. The other conspirators-”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” the Duke snorts, “like I cared about that. No. This is what’s going to happen now: I’m going to leave with my _Mate_ now and none of you will follow us, because otherwise…” a small drop of blood falls from where the dagger is pressing against the Prince’s skin and Sherlock makes a soft surprised noise.

Mycroft growls. “You’ll let go of my brother **_now_ ,** _”_ he orders, his tone promising all sort of _awful_ things if he’s disobeyed. As expected, the Duke seems unperturbed. “If you think you’re simply going to walk out of here-”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Moriarty states calmly, his tone so perfectly controlled that’s quite unnerving. “Sherlock is _mine_ and he’s coming with me. Or we’re both dying here. Your choice, your Highness.”

Mycroft clenches his fist, feeling completely helpless. He doesn’t know for sure if Moriarty could carry out his dark promise, but he finds himself unwilling to put his brother at risk. Even if there’s a chance that the Duke is just bluffing-

He’s not taking that risk.

“I’ll find you,” he promises Sherlock, knowing that’s the best he can offer for the time being, but hating the fact all the same. The younger male offers him a very small, very nervous smile, showing that he understands.

“I doubt that,” the Duke states, before pushing the door open once more. If they somehow could... but no. Any attempt to attack now could end up with Sherlock being hurt and he doesn’t want to take that chance, although letting Moriarty take him away… is it really better than having him killed?

The door closes with a bang.

“You’re really letting them go?” Gregory demands, worried and frustrated and Mycroft finds himself incapable of holding his stare.

“We’ll find them. I won’t... I can’t...”

The guard opens to mouth to say something else but gets interrupted by the sound of gunfire. Everyone in the room freezes once more; guns are not commonly used, in fact very few people own them. Except for the very odd military man, guns aren’t-

Mycroft is out of the room before his brain really registers what he’s doing, moving completely on instinct. His brother is nowhere in sight, but that’s not completely unexpected. Regardless of how little time has passed, since Moriarty was in a hurry to leave...

Oh god, if something happened to Sherlock...

He’ll never forgive himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I love drama, dramatic scenes aren’t quite my forte, but I’m rather happy with how the last scene turned out. It might be a little rushed, but well… I didn’t find any other way to write it. And I wasn’t planning on ending it here, but well, my original sketch went a bit different (the confrontation took place at the Coronation) and so well… this happened.  
> Now, I feel we need a companion piece because this might be a little rushed but I’m afraid I might disappoint you with the choice I’ve made rewarding it. I hope I’ll be able to post it next week, but I’m making no promises and I’m also not giving you any ‘spoilers’ although I can tell you I’m ridiculously proud of my idea (that came to me while I was supposedly studying).  
> Also, just one more chapter to go! I was planning for something a bit happier, but I think I’m going to have to settle for hopeful, especially considering the last turn my mental sketch took…  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you thought and if anything is confusing or if there’s anything you wish to see… well, I’ll try my best to fulfill any requests!  
> Thanks for reading!


	17. (Not at all) Pointless love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present you… the final chapter!  
> It might feel a bit simplistic, but hopefully it’ll be enjoyable enough for you to ignore that? Also, if you have already read “[helpless wishes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6536914)” I should probably mention I made one little modification to the ending, because when I re-read the first part of this I realized I had left something out…  
> Anyway, enjoy?

Turning around the corner, he finds his brother sitting on the floor, against the wall, his knees drawn close, his hands covering half of his face. He’s shaking badly and his scent is completely sour, heavy with tints of sadness and despair. It’s all biology, his body reacting to the broken bond, but-

He kneels down carefully, ignoring the rest of the scene for the time being. Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge him, taking deep breaths and fighting his gagging reflex. Although on a conscious level his brother must be relieved, his instincts are screaming at him that something is utterly _wrong._

Moriarty lies in a pool of blood in front of them and John Watson stands at the other side, holding a gun and looking quite lost, like he hasn’t quite registered what has happened.

Maybe he hasn’t.

Mycroft sighs, rubbing circles on his brother’s back. He hears footsteps approaching and looks up to find Gregory coming to stand next to him. The guard stares at the dead man for a beat, before turning his attention to the blond standing still, holding the gun loosely. John lets the other male take the gun from him, his eyes never leaving Sherlock, looking somewhere between relieved and horrified.

The pungent smell of his brother’s despair is making him ill and he can only imagine how much worse it must be for John, being the ‘source’ of it. The biology behind it all is quite twisted; under any other circumstances Mycroft has no doubt that his brother and John would already be locked in a passionate embrace, but right now-

Sherlock looks up, his eyes locking with John’s. He’s still shaking, but seems to have managed to pull himself together, if only for a little while. “You’re alive,” he whispers softly, almost reverently and John nods tightly.

The younger Prince tries to stand up then and Mycroft hurries to help him, knowing he’s probably feeling quite weak. “You don’t seem terribly surprised,” his brother adds accusingly, glaring and Mycroft looks down, overwhelmed with guilt. “You knew. You knew he was alive.”

The Crown Prince nods, because there’s really no use in denying it. Still- “Sherlock, I-”

But he doesn’t quite get to apologise, because that’s when Sherlock decides to punch him. The ‘attack’ and the strength of it takes him by surprise and so he finds himself hitting the ground, his head smashing against the floor and everything turns black shortly after.

In all fairness, he sort of deserved it.

* * *

 

When he wakes up, his head is pounding in the most painful way. He groans and rolls on his side, his stomach turning up unpleasantly. Fortunately he hasn’t ate in a while and so he doesn’t end up being sick all over himself.

“I told you he was going to be fine,” he hears John saying, the doctor standing almost next to him. “Just a little dizzy, probably.”

“More like very dizzy,” he corrects, closing his eyes. “What happened?”

“Sherlock knocked you out,” John explains, a tint of pride and smugness on his tone. Mycroft makes a face; it figures that after minutes (hours?) of being reunited, the pair will already be siding against him.

That’s not entirely fair, though. “Where-?”

He realizes then that he’s not alone in the bed. He looks over his shoulder to find his brother and niece sleeping next to him, Sherlock’s nose buried on his daughter’s curls, an arm tightly wrapped around the girl’s waist. He looks terribly young and vulnerable and something in Mycroft aches at the sight.

He turns to face John again, allowing all the guilt he’s feeling to show. “The broken bond will make him weak and sick for a week at least. Being close to familiar smells should help him to feel better.” Mycroft nods, his throat feeling too dry and John continues. “I can’t exactly be around much; other Alphas’ scent will make things worse, so I’m asking you to keep a close eye on him.”

Again, the Prince nods. John, however, isn’t paying attention to him anymore, his eyes now fixed on Sherlock and Abigail. Mycroft turns to look around the room then, hoping to find Gregory and he isn’t disappointed, only- “what happened to you?” he asks, noticing the black eye and split lip the male is sporting.

“John thought it would be a nice idea to give us a matching set of black eyes,” the guard tells him cheekily and the doctor sends a quick glare in his direction, before smirking a bit.

“Well, I wasn’t about to hit the King, was I?” the younger male asks, almost innocently. “And since you lied to me too, it seemed like a good compromise.”

The blond turns to stare at his daughter once more and Mycroft gulps. “John, I-”

“Don’t bother,” the doctor interrupts. “I don’t care for your reasons. I do think I deserved to know I had sired a child with Sherlock, but well… it’s all in the past.” He offers him a tight smile, before sharply turning around and heading towards the exit. “Now rest. The Queen has called off the Coronation ceremony but...” he gestures vaguely and then leaves, careful to close the door softly, so not to wake up Sherlock or Abigail.

Mycroft sighs, sitting up and rubbing his temples tiredly. “I suppose that went as well as it could.”

Gregory hums in agreement. “I can’t really blame him for his reaction,” the guard adds, smiling softly. “Look at the bright side, though: Magnussen has been apprehended, the rest of the conspirators will be dealt with and... well, Sherlock has some hellish weeks ahead of him, but at least he’s free of Moriarty.”

Mycroft tries to smile, but fails miserably. All things considered, the situation is better than he had hoped for, but-

“I think I should be leaving too,” the guard tells him, coming to stand next to the bed so he can lean down to press a quick kiss against his temple. “After such an eventful night, I think we’re all in a dire need of some rest.”

Mycroft wishes he could stay and that they could curl up to sleep together, but he’s aware his brother needs him now and so for the time being... “Rest well,” he whispers, grabbing Gregory’s hand and kissing the back of it softly. The Beta smiles lovingly, before turning around and leaving the room. The Prince turns to stare at his brother then, a sad smile on his lips.

“It’s finally over,” he whispers to himself.

But what does that mean for them?

* * *

 

When he wakes up again, he notices someone is staring intently at him. He blinks sleepily, his mind finally catching up with his body, the tiredness of the last few weeks finally making itself known.

“You lied to me,” Sherlock accuses softly, although there’s no anger in his tone, just quiet resignation. Somehow, that makes everything so much worse.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispers, opening his eyes so he can stare at his brother. The younger male is lying on his side, still holding Abigail close and Mycroft turns around so they’re face to face. “I just... I thought it was for the best.”

“Why?”

The older Prince remains silent, carefully thinking over his next words. “We didn’t know if any of us was going to survive; it felt unfair to give you hope that I had no way of helping to materialize into something else.”

Sherlock hums, thoughtful. “I’m not a child anymore, Mycroft,” he protests, softly. “I thought I had proven you as much. You don’t get to decide what’s the best for me anymore.”

Mycroft’s heart clenches painfully. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, knowing he really has no justification. Sherlock is right, of course, his brother has grown so much in the last few years, but he can’t help feeling- “I just... I didn’t want to make things harder on you.”

The younger male sighs. “I guess it really doesn’t matter anymore. Let’s leave the past in the past.” He offers him a self depreciating smile and Mycroft’s heart clenches once more. “What happens now?”

It’s a marvelous question, to be honest. They have survived a conspiracy that threatened their lives and the lives of the ones they love, but that’s hardly the end of the story. There’s no ‘and they lived happily after’ waiting for them,  there are still many obstacles ahead of them.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promises solemnly, grabbing his brother’s hand from over his niece. “It’ll be fine.”

Sherlock stares at him skeptically, but doesn’t comment.

There’s really nothing to say.

* * *

 

“Come on in,” the Queen’s voice calls and Mycroft steps into the room. His eyes swept quickly over what used to be his father’s desk, covered with papers and open books. He frowns a little, but decides not to comment on it. “Yes, darling?” his mother prompts, from her place next to the window, without turning to look at him.

“I- There are some things I think we should discuss.”

The woman nods, turning around slowly and coming to sit behind the desk, resting her elbows over the table and linking her fingers beneath her chin, slightly leaning towards him. “How’s your brother?” she asks, almost sounding disinterested. “And his… _doctor?_ ”

Mycroft choses not to comment on her tone. “He’s doing better. He can’t still be around other Alphas much, not without panicking a little.”

The Queen nods, thoughtful. “The bond was too recent,” she comments off handedly. “It’ll get better with time.”

Mycroft finds himself wondering once more about his father’s death and how completely unaffected his mother seems. They had been bonded for over 30 years, but the breaking of the bond should have affected her too, even if not as badly as it had Sherlock.

“Did you have anything to do with that?” he asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. The female observes him for a beat, before offering him an all-too-innocent smile.

“What do you mean, darling?” she asks, tilting her head, looking for all intents and purposes like she really doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Mycroft knows better of course, but he decides he really doesn’t want to know. “Nevermind. Now, about the Coronation-”

Her smile widens and Mycroft interrupts himself, frowning a little. The Queen continues beaming at him, looking entirely too smug. “We’ve reached an agreement with the rest of the noble conspirators,” she informs him and Mycroft wonders who _we_ are. “In exchange of not sharing Lord Magnussen’s fate, they’ve agreed to support your claim to the throne, along with your right to rule without an Alpha’s input.”

The Prince’s jaw hits the ground and the Queen laughs good naturedly. Mycroft pulls himself together quickly, not sure of what to think. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” she counters, still smiling. “Of course it won’t be easy, but-”

“I can’t... these are traitors, mother! We can’t trust them!” he protests, and yet his heart is soaring. Because if that’s really the case, if he gets spared of having to choose an Alpha-

The Queen shrugs, unconcerned. “To be fair, a lot of them were being blackmailed by Lord Magnussen into helping him. As for the others… well, I guess they really wouldn’t care for sharing the Earl’s fate.”

Mycroft frowns, wondering what exactly the man’s fate was. “What-?”

“Now, darling, there are things you’re better off not knowing,” she smiles enigmatically and a shiver runs down the Prince’s spine. There’s something dark and dangerous on that smile and he figures that yes, he really doesn’t want to know.

For a while, neither of them speak, letting the implications of their talk sink in. “Do you honestly mean-?”

“There are details we still need to work out, like the fact you’re lacking an heir and it’s very unlikely your brother and his… _whatever_ will be having any children, but well… we can work that out later.”

Mycroft frowns, uncomfortable with the heir talk, not to mention Mother’s obvious disapproval of Sherlock’s and John’s relationship, but for the time being, he figures he can let it go. In any case, now that those two are reunited, not even God himself will be able pull them apart.

Can this really be it? Could it really be that easy?

Does he dare to hope?

* * *

 

Sherlock stares at nothing in particular, obviously lost in thought. Mycroft waits in silence, wanting to hear his brother’s input and figuring he should give him time to think things through. He can’t really trust his own judgement right now; he’s too blinded by hope.

“You’ll make a good King,” his brother finally says, “and I do believe the whole of the nobility knows this, so I doubt anyone will be particularly opposed to the idea of you ruling on your own. They might be a little more reluctant to accept a Beta as King’s Consort, but well… that can wait.”

Mycroft bites his lip, wondering about that. It’s not like he and Gregory have discussed their relationship now; heck, they haven’t really seen each other that much since _that night,_ but-

“As for the heir… well, it a little too early to know if I’m pregnant,” Sherlock continues calmly and Mycroft freezes. That- he hadn’t considered that. If his brother is indeed carrying a child again- “In any case, you could always name Abigail your successor and… quit looking at me like that!” he snaps angrily and Mycroft realizes he might have been staring at his brother still flat stomach a little too intently. “I don’t need you fretting over this!” he argues, crossing his arms over his stomach defensively.

“Sherlock-”

“It’s a possibility and I’ll deal with it if it turns out to be a reality, but I don’t need anyone’s _pity!_ ” the younger Prince hisses darkly. “So stop it.”

Mycroft bites his lip once more, bile raising to his throat, suddenly angry at himself. How could he overlook the fact that his brother is obviously still going through a lot, how could he focus so much on his own happiness that he lost track of-?

“Damn it, Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaims, frustrated. “Stop that! It’s not your bloody fault that things ended up like this!” he stands up and starts pacing around the room, his whole body tense. “It’s far from ideal, I’m well aware, but it ended much better than we expected.” The Prince clenches his fists, distressed and Mycroft finds himself out of words. “John is alive and even if right now we can’t-” he interrupts himself and takes a shaky breath, trying to get his emotions under control. “You’re alive too and there was a time when I honestly thought I was going to lose you and Abigail is _safe_ and that’s... that’s... ” he stops once more, taking long deep breaths so he doesn’t start crying. “That’s what matters.”

The older Prince doesn’t reply, just stands up too and takes his brother in his arms, hugging him close. Sherlock lets out another shaky breath and clings to the older male, his body shaking with suppressed sobs.

Yes, things ended better than they expected.

It doesn’t mean they’re perfect.

* * *

 

He stands in front of the mirror, critically gazing at his clothes. His gown is quite elegant and something he wouldn’t have chosen himself, but this is his Coronation ceremony and he’s expected to look his very best, even if he’s terribly uncomfortable in the dratted thing.

He hears a chuckle behind him and turns to find Gregory standing by the door, staring at him appreciatively.

Warmth spreads across his body, his cheeks acquiring a rosy hue. The guard offers him yet another smile, this one a little predatory and Mycroft finds himself out of breath. He hasn’t seen his lover in almost a week (their hurried talks on the hallways don’t count) and he can feel his body reacting to the other’s presence right away, longing getting the best of him.

“Stop that,” he orders, but his voice breaks and he blushes harder when the other male’s smile widens. His knees feel like jelly and he’s fairly certain he’s about to do or say something quite embarrassing, but-

“Stop what?” the Beta asks cheekily, coming to stand right behind him, resting his chin on the Prince’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around his waist. “I’m not doing anything,” he argues, pressing a kiss against Mycroft’s neck, making him moan softly.

“Stop it,” he repeats and Gregory starts pressing more open mouthed kisses against his neck, completely disregarding his orders. Mycroft thinks he should protest, but finds himself incapable of.

He turns in his lover’s arms, returning the embrace and soon they’re kissing enthusiastically, bodies pressed together and far too many clothes in between. He goes to try to remedy that and Gregory chuckles, pulling back and making him whimper in protest.

God, how embarrassing.

“We can’t,” the guard murmurs, kissing his cheek softly. “You have a ceremony to attend.”

Mycroft takes a deep breath, forcing himself to concentrate. His lover is right, of course, this is hardly the time for them to get all amorous, but- “Later?”

Gregory chuckles good naturedly. “Later,” he promises, his eyes twinkling with delight.

Mycroft smiles.

* * *

 

The Crown feels too heavy on his head, both literally and figuratively. He takes comfort on the fact that Sherlock looks as uncomfortable with his own smaller crown as he feels and he guesses things aren’t quite as bad.

Now that he’s King, Sherlock has taken over the title of Crown Prince, although that would be supposed to change once Mycroft had children on his own. In this particular case however, that won’t change until-

He looks at Abigail, being carried by her other father and he wonders if his brother will really be comfortable with having his daughter become heir to the Throne. It’s an enormous duty and it has many implications that Mycroft really doesn’t want his niece suffering through, but-

No use on worrying about that just yet, he guesses.

The ceremony carries on without a hitch and once it’s over, the King finds himself breathing easier. It’s a little weird to think he’s now King and that he has absolute power over his Kingdom, but then again, he was groomed from birth for this and so he supposes-

Oh, who is he kidding? He’s nervous and worried, but he’s not about to let that show.

Sherlock’s smirk tells him he’s not being quite as discreet as he wishes, but then again, his brother was always terribly observant.

The party that follows feels… wrong, somehow. He finds himself surrounded by nobles, all of them eager to talk to him and he feels slightly irked, because none of these people would have lifted a finger to help him when he was beneath Magnussen’s thumb and now-

Well, better not to think much about it. It’s of no use in any case.

He catches sight of Gregory, Anthea, Molly and Sholto standing by Sherlock and John, lost in their own bubble, talking and joking among them and he feels his heart swelling. He owns them so much and there are really no words to express his gratitude, nor anything he can do to show them just how much their support meant, although-

He gets distracted by yet another wave of eager nobles and he forces himself to endure. He owes them nothing, and yet-

He really doesn’t want to think much about it.

* * *

 

Sherlock is happily dancing with John, ignoring the murmurs of the scandalized nobility. Mycroft makes a point of glaring at anyone who dares to say anything against his brother and his beloved, but it’s not quite enough to stop the gossip. And when somehow they find out about Abigail, then there’s no way to keep people from talking.

Sherlock, however, doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest and so he lets it go. His brother seems happy and that’s all that matters, really.

He catches sight of Gregory dancing with Molly and he hurries to look away. It’s ridiculous to feel jealous, he knows, especially now, but-

He looks at them once more, their bright smiles and Molly’s delighted giggles. He does think they could work together and maybe he should let that happen. Their circumstances might not be as dire as they once were, but they’re still far from ideal. From what he has gathered tonight, after speaking with all those nobles, things could still take a nasty turn and maybe it would be for the best-

“You should go and claim back your guard,” his mother tells him, appearing out of thin air. Mycroft stares at her for a beat, before turning his attention back to his lover. “You should dance together at least once.”

The King frowns a little. “Don’t you think-?”

“When Sherlock married, I told him we can’t escape who we are,” she tells him slowly, her tone a little sad, with a certain wistfulness in it. “And maybe we can’t. But perhaps... perhaps it doesn’t mean you should stop fighting for what you want.”

Mycroft contemplates that for a beat, his eyes flicking to Sherlock and John who seem lost in their own little bubble, oblivious to the rest of the world. He turns to stare at Gregory once more and he bites his lip gently. “He deserves-”

“He wants you,” she interrupts him smoothly. “And if you want him, why should anything else matter?”

She’s right, he realizes. After everything they have endured, to let go now…

He offers his mother one shaky smile before heading towards the dance floor to ‘recover’ his guard. Molly smiles brightly at him and steps away, going back to talk to Anthea and Sholto. Mycroft turns to Gregory and smiles at him, the guard beaming happily at him.

“I was wondering if you would ask me to dance at all,” the younger male tells him playfully. “You seemed to be quite busy.”

Mycroft shrugs. “I’ll always make time for you.” And that’s a promise he intends to keep. His lover observes him for a few seconds, before a wide smile spreads across his features and the King finds himself smiling back too.

“I love you,” Gregory tells him, pulling him into a chaste kiss that turns into something else entirely soon enough. “I... This might be a little forward but... should we retire?”

Mycroft looks around the room, biting his lip gently. It might not be the best idea, but-

“Yes,” he replies breathlessly, pulling the other close. “Take me to bed, love.”

He can feel the other shivering and he smiles brightly. This isn’t where the story ends, he knows, and there’s probably more problems and heartbreak waiting for them down the road but for now...

For now they have each other and that’s what matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it! So, thoughts anyone?  
> In the end, I had to let go of the scene where John found out he had a daughter, mostly due the changes this last chapter went through from my original mental sketch. I was a bit saddened by that but well… it seemed more logical this way.  
> I’m not really done with this verse, though. As you might have noticed, I didn’t go in deep with Sherlock’s issues here, but I think that’s justified. Even if Sherlock has relied on Mycroft through the whole fic, in the main fic we only get to see what Mycroft is allowed to see of his brother’s dilemma, so… yeah, I think that part needs a bit more of work, because otherwise a ‘happy ending’ would feel a bit unrealistic and rushed. I think.  
> Also, I know I promised a happy ending, but well… it’s quite hopeful, I believe. Not exactly happily ever after, but heading in that general direction, right? I’m a believer of happy endings, but I do believe you have to constantly work for them and so… well, that’s what I mean with the story not being over.  
> There are a couple more of ficlets I want to write, one dealing with the fallout for Sherlock and John (which might be a little angsty in the beginning but it’ll get more hopeful) and I’m toying with the idea of turning that into a sequel. There’s a bit of plot that I had to leave out of this because it had enough drama as it was but well… maybe I’ll write it in the sequel. I’m not really a fan of Mary, but I love her breaking havoc among our lovebirds (yes, I know, I’m a bad person) Also, there might or might not be a baby so… thoughts anyone?  
> In any case, I would like to thank you all for reading so far. It’s been a joy to work on this fic, even if it break my own heart at some parts, and I hope you’re not disappointed on the ending. There are things missing, I’m aware, but well… since I do plan on writing more for this verse, I hope to continue expanding the story. Also, any suggestions you have, I’ll be happy to hear!  
> Thanks for reading!! And keep an eye open for the companion piece, probable sequel, which will be called ‘healing wounds’ ;)

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out! Let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


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